


The Fixer

by oschun



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Fixer AU, M/M, Plot, References to BDSM and breathplay, References to Drugs, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-24 03:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14947122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oschun/pseuds/oschun
Summary: Misha is a well-connected high-society fixer, the kind of guy who makes things happen. Jensen is the muscle of the business.  Jared is a hacker and law school drop-out, recently hired by Misha to do investigative research.





	1. The Irritation of Co-workers

**PROLOGUE**

At a young age Misha came to realize there was something in his personality that made complicated, secretive people want to tell him things they wouldn’t normally tell other people. He didn’t encourage these confidences. They frequently made his life very difficult. He also didn’t understand why somebody with a lot to hide would specifically choose him to be the keeper of their secrets.

Maybe it was because they thought he was non-judgemental (which was true), or that he was good at keeping secrets (also true), or because they thought he was morally flexible and therefore less likely to criticize their behavior (also possibly true).  

In his younger years, he used to think this personality trait was a curse, something passed down through his knotted family tree by a gypsy great-grandmother. Then he grew up and realized he could use it to his advantage. In another life he could have been a psychiatrist, a conflict negotiator or attorney, a priest or politician, but as it was, he was… a party planner.  

It wasn’t quite the right term for what he did, but it would do.

***

Misha knew the key to a successful social event was military precision disguised as effortless elegance. Everything had to be planned faultlessly and with a ruthless attention to detail, but seem organic, as if it all happened without effort or manipulation, a natural rhythm to the events of the occasion, fluid and un-orchestrated.

Rich and powerful people paid him a lot of money to construct this fiction.  

The accepted purpose of tonight’s function was to raise money for the arts, but in reality, it was about putting certain people in a room together. In Misha’s experience that was pretty much always the purpose of charity events. The charity mattered less than the event. It was an undeniable fact that good champagne, beautiful people and feel-good charity donations were a more favorable backdrop for getting what you wanted in business and politics, especially if there were some back-handed tactics involved.

Tonight’s real purpose, then, was to put in a room a very wealthy developer who needed to get around some inflexible planning regulations for a proposed building development with the key players who were in a position to make the project happen.

The developer himself was unaware of another long game playing out. Tonight’s deal would have repercussions further down the line, repercussions the developer wasn’t currently in a position to anticipate.

Sometimes Misha felt like an invisible conductor. He half-smiled as he watched it all unfold in front of him.

His earpiece crackled, and he heard Jensen’s voice in his ear. “Careful there, maestro. You’re doing the evil overlord smirk. You don’t want the minions to know you’re playing them like chess pieces.”

Misha looked across the room. Jensen was standing near the bar, smirking.

Ignoring him, Misha smiled politely as a distinguished older man passed him and said, “Good evening, Governor.” He nodded at the young blonde on the governor’s arm. “Anna, you’re looking exceptionally lovely tonight.”

The governor had a type with which Misha was very familiar.

Anna was part of the Misha Collins full package deal. To call her a call girl would be an insult to her talents. She was from a dirt poor Wisconsin family, but blessed with beauty, ambition and calculating intelligence. She’d been working for a high-end escort agency to pay for her university tuition when Misha discovered her. She was studying Economics and Politics, and would probably end up either in the Presidential inner circle or managing a global criminal enterprise. (With the current administration was there any difference.)

Misha was good at attracting very smart people with slightly dubious ethics into his own inner circle.

“So, there’s a Kentucky senator’s daughter here tonight that I’m pretty sure wants to get into my pants. But she’s underage and probably a virgin, and I’m not sure I want that on my conscience.”

Misha readjusted his ear-bud and gave Jensen a withering look from across the room before schooling his face into a polite expression as another guest walked past him.    

“Unless she’s lost her virginity horse-riding. That happens to Kentucky girls, right? It’s a thing. First orgasm riding the broad, hard back of a sturdy mare, right?”

Misha suppressed the smile threatening the corners of his mouth. Allowing himself to show amusement would only encourage the monologue in his ear. He inclined his head in the direction of an important group of people to a server carrying a tray of heavy-cut crystal glasses of expensive French champagne.

The really good stuff. They’d recognize it for what it was and be silently impressed. Attention to detail was everything.    

“But I’m bored by virgins,” Jensen’s voice continued. “Even Republican virgins. You’d be surprised by how often they turn into hellcats in bed. It’s all that repressed sexuality and daddy issues.”

One of the hotel’s messengers came up and discreetly touched Misha’s elbow, passing him a folded piece of paper. He took it and nodded in dismissal.  

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m all in favor of corrupting the younger generation of political wives. God knows they need it before they’re bored to death of sucking old-man dick, attending society luncheons, and fucking the pool-boy on a Wednesday just to get themselves through the monotony of the week.”

Misha gave Jensen a sharp, quelling look before making his way across the room. He made eye contact with the developer who’d paid a lot of money to make tonight happen. They met in a corner and Misha said quietly, “It’s done.” He watched the gleam of anticipation light in the other man’s eyes.

“Misha, I don’t pay you enough,” the developer said, not looking at Misha, but zeroing in on another man standing in a group near the bar.

‘ _No, you don’t,’_ Misha thought, watching the client’s retreating back. _‘And that’s why you’re at least two moves behind me.’_

Misha shifted his gaze back to Jensen, who raised his glass in an inconspicuous movement as the client strode confidently across the room.

“And there he goes, into the Misha Collins spiderweb,” he said mockingly through the earpiece. “He thinks you’ve done him a favor. The poor bastard doesn’t even know what he’s getting himself into. Want to double team the Republican daughter to celebrate?”

“If you promise to stop talking inane garbage in my ear while I’m trying to work, I’ll blow you before you go home tonight.”

Jensen looked mock-thoughtful, as if weighing up his choices. “Is that company policy? Sexual favors instead of cash bonuses for the employee of the week? Because I think I’d rather take the cash. There’s a new sports car I’ve got my eye on.”

“Or I could just fire you.”

“I’ll settle for the blowjob, thanks.”

Misha smiled and headed towards the group of people standing with the Governor who were going to make the double-deal a reality.

 

“So, the kid came good?” Jensen asked later as they relaxed in the hotel kitchen, his mouth stuffed with leftover appetizers. “He made all that double-dealing with the governor happen?”

Misha sipped a glass of champagne. “Jared’s good at his job.”

Jensen snorted and shoved a quail egg topped with caviar into his mouth. “Left it to the last minute though, didn’t he?”

Misha shrugged. “That’s how it goes sometimes.”

Jensen snorted again.

Misha knew this was a conversation they needed to have, and now was as a good a time as any other. “Is this thing with Jared going to be problem, Jensen? Because I really hope it isn’t.”

“I’m not the one with the problem,” Jensen replied belligerently.

“He insulted you. Your ego was bruised. It’s time to move on and put it behind you. You have to work with him every day”  

Jensen pulled himself up onto the counter and opened a bottle of beer. He flicked the cap across the room and watched it land in a sink, then took a long drink. “We’ve been doing this for what? Six years now?”

“Seven this June.”

Jensen nodded. “A while. He’s been with us for three months, right? I made a small miscalculation on that job. That’s all it was. He had no right to shit on me like that. He called me a blunt instrument, Misha. A fucking _blunt instrument_. That’s not just rude. It’s—”

“You made a mistake.”

“I made a _minor_ miscalculation.”

“That cost us three weeks of work, mostly Jared’s work. He had the right to call you out on it, regardless of how long he’s been working with us.”

Jensen’s jaw tightened. He gripped the neck of his beer bottle. “Do _you_ think I fucked up?”

Misha moved the tray of appetizers out of his way and pulled himself up onto the counter to sit next to Jensen. “You made a mistake. It happens. Out there, you’re doing a lot of the investigative legwork on your own so making a mistake is inevitable. Because of your assumptions we put the wrong people together. We’re supposed to fix things. But instead we created more problems that took a lot of work to put right.”

Jensen’s lips thinned in anger, but he didn’t dispute Misha’s statement.

“The truth is, you’re angry because you wanted to impress him. You’re used to being impressive. You failed, so you’re feeling inadequate.”

Jensen looked pained. “I don’t need to impress the newbie. Least of all some computer nerd with only half a law degree, some hacker skills, and a whole lotta attitude.”

“You also sparred with him in the gym and discovered he’s almost your equal. Yes, I know about that,” he said when Jensen raised his eyebrows. “The physical stuff is your domain, so you’ve decided not only is he smarter, but he also has the potential to surpass you in what you believe is your only skill area.”    

Jensen drained his beer and looked like he was about to get off the counter. Misha forestalled him with a hand on his arm.

“But you’re wrong. It’s not your only skill. Everybody plays their part. Jared can’t do what you do. He’s not going to replace you, Jensen. You know you’re not a _blunt instrument_ or a _trained attack dog_. He was angry, and the way I remember it, you threw some pretty pointed insults in his direction too.”

Jensen smirked. “Desk monkey, college boy, tree-hugger, gigantor, salad-eater—”

“Yes, that last one was your best. Very witty.”

“Who the fuck eats quinoa three times a week.”

“Not everybody believes in the health benefits of the cheeseburger and fries diet.”  

Jensen sighed. “Why are we doing this? I thought you promised me a blow-job, not a lecture.”

Misha put his hand on Jensen’s thigh. “It’s still on the table.”  

“This table? Jesus, how many hotel kitchens and bathrooms have we done it in?”

There was an undertone to his voice that caught Misha’s attention. They’d had sex in countless bathrooms and kitchens, as well as various other anonymous, and occasionally unsanitary, places. That’s how it had always been between them: always physical, but not without emotion, a feeling of connection and camaraderie, a weird sort friendship that also included sex.  

 “A lot?” Misha hazarded and moved his hand higher up Jensen’s thigh.

Jensen placed his hand over Misha’s. “Rain check? I’m tired. Really, I just want to go home and get some shut-eye.”

Misha pulled his hand back. "Sure.” There were no expectations between them. Over the years they’d worked out the careful rules of their relationship. “See you in the morning.”

Misha picked up his phone to call a contact in Germany. The time zone difference was about right for a morning call.

***

There were a lot of things about Jensen that Jared found irritating.

If he made a list, it would probably run into two pages. At least. Single-line bullet points would make that about sixty reasons why Jensen Ackles was one of the most irritating human beings Jared had ever encountered.

At the top of the list would be the sounds he made when he was eating. Relentless chewing, sucking, and slurping noises that set Jared’s teeth on edge. And he was always eating. It was incredible that somebody could stay lean and shovel that amount of junk food into his mouth. He was disgustingly messy too, constantly leaving greasy burger smears on every surface, and candy wrappers and empty soda cans lying all over the office.

“Have you got that report compiled yet on the golf club members? I can’t do the digging Misha’s asked me to do until I’ve got the profile information from you.”

Actually, scratch that, the most irritating thing about Jensen was the way he hounded Jared for information he’d only just been asked to research. And the way he then sat impatiently on the leather couch in the office, tapping his feet, drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch, humming irritating rock tunes that ear-wormed their way into Jared’s consciousness for days.

Jared gritted his teeth. “I’m working on it. I only got this an hour ago. Don’t you have something else to do?”

Jensen huffed impatiently and lay back on the couch.  “No. Like I said, I can only do what I need to do when you’ve done what you need to do.”

It was impossible for Jared to imagine him being more irritating, but then he seemed to magic a tennis ball out of thin air and started throwing it against the wall opposite him.

 _‘I’m going to have to kill him,’_ Jared thought. Jensen was tough and carried a gun, but it was possible. Jared was smart and cunning. Jensen wouldn’t seem him coming.

Jared silently entertained himself with various imagined assassination scenarios as he compiled the information on the golf club members, the thud of the tennis ball reverberating through the room as he tried to concentrate on what he was doing.

Eventually he got so wrapped up in the work he didn’t notice when it went silent. He looked over and saw that Jensen had fallen asleep on the couch.

When he’d completed the work, he went over, meaning to dump the printed report on Jensen’s chest with a sarcastic comment, but paused when he saw him up close.

Jensen was obviously fast asleep, but his eyebrows were drawn, his arms defensively crossed over his chest. He looked unhappy, and somehow boyish. Suddenly, Jared didn’t want to wake him, didn’t want to watch him put up more defensive barriers when he realized he’d been observed in a moment of vulnerability.

Jared was startled to discover the feeling he was experiencing was some kind of reflexive protectiveness and had to stop himself from reaching out to smooth the lines in Jensen’s forehead.

He’d probably get his fingers broken if he tried.

He quietly put the report on the floor next to the couch and left the room.      

***

It was useful as hell having a gym in the building where you worked, except for the fact that you then had to watch your nerdy co-worker effortlessly bench-press more than you could imagine doing on your best day.

Jared Padalecki really was a very irritating human being, Jensen decided. Was he seriously preparing to lift three-hundred pounds over there? The guy sat behind a computer all day and ate salad for lunch. How was he that strong?

Jensen added another weight to the squat stand he was working out on, and regretted it immediately.

He was getting old. It was all downhill after the age of thirty-five for guys like him who drank too much beer and ate a lot of junk food. Next thing he’d be losing his hair.

Jared had very irritating hair. He looked like a commercial for men’s hair products. You could imagine him running across a beach in a pair of hip-hugging shorts, Baywatch style, his muscles gleaming. Then turning to the camera with a fake smile and saying, “You, too, can look this good if you buy this over-priced product that doesn’t work.”

“Jensen, if you’re finished, would you mind spotting for me?”

Jensen pulled himself out of his imagination and cleared his throat, vaguely surprised that Jared had approached him rather than someone else in the gym. “Yeah, sure.”  He was done with his own circuit and might as well be made to feel inadequate before he went home.

He checked the weight on the bar as Jared lay down on the bench. Two eighty. Impressive.

“How many reps you doing?”

Jared looked up at him. “Just a couple. I’m warming up. I want to lift three twenty. It’s my limit. You mind?” He smiled, his manner disarmingly polite.

Things had been tense between them since that blow-up over the mistake Jensen had made during the previous job. In fact, things had been edgy between them from the start. Jared got under his skin from the moment Misha introduced him. This sudden politeness put Jensen on the back foot. “No, let’s do it,” he said quickly.

 As he stood over Jared, he briefly wondered if he could see up his shorts. He almost snorted aloud when he pictured what it would look like from Jared’s angle if he’d gone commando, wished for a minute he had, just to throw him off.

Jared un-racked the bar and started lifting. He was impressively strong. Jensen became absorbed in watching him as he lifted two eighty easily, then three hundred, then three twenty. He was sweating and flushed, totally focused, his face set in concentration.

Jensen couldn’t help feeling grudging admiration. “You want to push that upper limit and try three thirty? You’re looking strong. I’m here if it gets too tough.”  

Jared looked up at him and held his gaze.

“You can trust me,” Jensen said quietly. Spotting for someone is inherently a position of trust. The crushing force of over three hundred pounds falling on a guy’s chest or throat could cause some serious damage.

Jared nodded but didn’t say anything. Jensen added the weight and then helped him unrack the bar. Jared took a deep breath and started steadily pushing up, then faltered as a tremor began in his left arm. His teeth were clenched.

“You can do it,” Jensen said in a low growl, willing him to push harder, invested in him doing it for no other reason than he wanted to watch him do it. His tone had the intended effect, made Jared find that final bit of determination he might not have on his own.

Jensen helped him guide the bar into the hooks after he’d reached the top of the movement.

When he’d caught his breath, Jared looked up and grinned, infectiously wide and open.

Jensen put out his hand. “Not bad for a pencil pusher.”

Jared briefly high-fived him. He sat up and straddled the bench, wiping his face with a hand towel. “Pencil pusher? Let’ see _you_ lift three-hundred and thirty pounds.”

“I can’t lie down on that bench now. It’s gross. You’ve sweated all over it. Anyway, I don’t want to embarrass you when you’re feeling all proud of yourself and shit.”

“I can take it.”

 “I don’t think you can, Padalecki. I don’t want to make you cry like you did last time.”

“This is not sparring. You don’t have the same advantage with this. You’re scared of humiliating yourself in front of me, admit it. And just to clarify, you got lucky last time, old man.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

Jared laughed and raised his eyebrows in mock disdain. “Seriously? That’s your comeback? I can hardly keep up.”

Jensen was about to retort when he realized that what had stared out as competitive banter was bordering dangerously close to flirtation. “Whatever, junior. I’m going to hit the shower. You should too. You smell like a wet dog.”

Jared’s voice followed him as he headed towards the changing room. “That’s right. Walk away. Admit it, you’re scared of being challenged.”

Jensen thought he might be, and his discomfort grew even more when he got out of the shower and passed Jared on the way back to his locker. He knew he wasn’t imagining the way Jared’s eyes trailed down his bare chest and lingered lower where the towel was knotted around his hips. It made heat spark up all the way through his body.

“Can I use your shampoo? I’ve run out.”

“Yeah,” Jensen replied abruptly, tossing the bottle at him, strangely bothered by the idea of Jared smelling like him. Not that he’d ever get that close, and of course, sniffing somebody’s hair was a pretty major invasion of personal space.

Jensen left before Jared got out of the shower. He needed a beer, and it wasn’t as if he was going to wait around to invite Jared to join him. They didn’t even like working together so why would they spend more time together than necessary. They weren’t buddies or anything. That was never going to happen.

Anyway, Jared wouldn’t appreciate the dive bars Jensen favored. He probably hung out in trendy hipster places and drank craft beer, for chrissake. If he drank at all. You don’t get abs like his by drinking beer.

And now Jensen was thinking about his abs again.

Jared Padalecki really was a very irritating human being.


	2. The Frankie Lange Job

Jared was aware that Jensen fulfilled a dual role in Misha’s business. On one hand, he provided security at the prestigious social functions Misha organized, and was often in the company of hard-faced, heavily-muscled guys who looked like they were ex-cops or ex-military for private hire. He also acted as a type of investigator, digging up the information certain clients required as part of the broader service Misha provided.

Ostensibly, Misha was in ‘event management’, but in reality, he was what people called a fixer, somebody who made things happen. He was very well-connected, the only son of a wealthy, glamorous socialite and politician father, both dead now. Jared knew little about Jensen’s background, but he couldn’t imagine he came from the same kind of world. They’d clearly known each other for years, though, and there was an in-sync intimacy between them that made Jared wonder if their relationship had ever been sexual. Not that it was any of his business.          

Misha had been completely upfront about what his job would entail when he recruited Jared. Some of it was illegal, hacking sensitive information that could send him to prison if he got caught. Some of it was just unethical, involving a lot of snooping into people’s private lives. The shady ethics of the job should’ve bothered him but didn’t. It’s not what he would have imagined for his life, but it was challenging work, and genuinely exhilarating when the pressure was on. 

Maybe he’d just lost his moral compass at law school. Halfway through his third year, everything suddenly seemed so pointless. The lines got blurred. So much of what he’d hoped would be worthy and admirable started to feel like a hypocritical lie. The right side of the law and the good guys started to look exactly like the guys on the other side.

What he was doing right now, working for Misha, seemed more real somehow and in a weird way more honest than working for a law firm. At least there was no hypocrisy in what they did.

***

“Jensen, let Jared tag along on the golf club investigation.”

Jared gritted his teeth in irritation when Jensen choked and sputtered as if Misha had just suggested taking him out on a date or something, not on a routine job. It really pissed him off when Jensen made him feel like an inadequate kid.

“I—"

“What am I supposed to do with him?” Jensen interrupted. “I’m not babysitting him, Misha.”

Jared half-opened his mouth to sarcastically say he might be useful in stopping Jensen from screwing up again, then snapped it shut when he remembered the fallout after the last time he’d accused Jensen of making a mistake.

He knew he shouldn’t have lost his temper the way he did that day, shouldn’t have said what he did. Calling Jensen a trained attack dog was both rude and untrue. He was clearly more than just the muscle of the business. But did he think he was above reproach just because he was Jensen fucking Ackles?  

“He’s going with you, Jensen. You might even find him useful.”

“What? College boy? He’s better behind a computer.”

“Do you mind," Jared said irritably. "I’m actually standing right here.”

“Take him with you, Jensen,” Misha repeated, his quiet tone tolerating no argument. “He’s ready for more responsibility. Show him the ropes. He might surprise you.”

Finally conceding, Jensen shrugged. “Fine.” Then his eyes narrowed as he gave Jared an assessing look. He smirked. “Maybe you’re right. He could be just what I need on this particular job.”

Jared felt instantly apprehensive.

“Do what I tell you and don’t get in my way,” Jensen threw over his shoulder as he walked out the room.

Silent and seething, Jared followed him like an obedient child.

 

Something Jared hadn’t realized about Jensen was his chameleon-like ability to play different roles, and how he used that skill to manipulate information out of people. In one afternoon, Jared had watched him convincingly pretend to be a pro-golfer, a cop, a janitor, and somebody’s best friend from college. It was impressive watching him.   

“So, this is what you do? You lie your way into people’s homes, into their lives, get what you want from them and then feed that information to Misha so his privileged clients get what they want?” he asked, watching Jensen demolish three tacos, one after the other, when they stopped for lunch at a dingy place that Jensen claimed served the best tacos in the city.

Jensen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a sip of his soda. “Is that the sound of your conscience talking, Jared? Or are you just giving me a hard time?”

Jared shrugged. “Neither. It’s admiration,” he said honestly. “You’re good. You read people, give them what they want, take what you need from them, and you don’t leave a mess behind. To tell the truth, I didn’t think you’d have that kind of subtlety.”

Jensen scrunched-up his paper napkin and threw it in a neat arc into a nearby bin. “Don’t pretend you’re any different. I know that you job-interviewed by showing Misha how you could work your way into a corporate event at one of the most exclusive clubs in New York. You’re a player, Jared. Just like we are. And that was after he found you hacking into one of his client’s bank accounts.”

“My dad taught me when I was a kid how to get into a place, any place. On-line, it’s the same basic skill set.”

Jensen looked closely at him. “There it is. The Jared Padalecki back-story. So, was law school a way to prove you weren’t just like your dad, college boy? Did you drop out when you discovered there was no denying your heritage?”  

Jared’s cheeks burned. Being called a drop-out by a guy who barely got a high-school diploma should be funny, even ironic, not make him feel angry and embarrassed. But the truth was, he was still sensitive about not finishing law school. He’d secretly spent his entire childhood loving the idea of the law and thinking he wanted to be an attorney, something different to what he’d been brought up to believe he would become. Then he'd suffered his existential breakdown. It was still raw, and he was still trying to figure out how to fully deal with it. Jensen always knew exactly the right buttons to push.

“I don’t know, Jensen. Did you grow up into the kind of man your dad always wanted you to be?”

Jensen snorted derisively. He swallowed what was left of his soda before answering. “My dad was a violent drunk. I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen-years-old." He got up. “So, are you ready to get your hands dirty, Padalecki, really dirty, no safe barrier of the computer screen between you and the job?”

Jared stood up and faced him. “I’m ready for whatever you want to throw at me, old man.”

Jensen laughed. “Shut up, junior. You’re going to regret that bravado.” 

 

Later that night, when Jared found himself in the private function area of a fashionable nightclub, he admitted to himself that he possibly was regretting his earlier bravado.

It was a champagne-and-cocaine, anything-goes kind of place where rich people get their rocks off away from prying eyes. The guest list was exclusive, but Jensen knew a guy who knew a guy.  

Their target was the son of one of the golf club members and the job was to dig up dirt on the son to get to the old man. Jensen had cryptically told him he’d have to play a role, and to wear something that made him look hot. Neither of which boded well.

It wasn’t that Jared was unused to playing roles. His dad had been a fraudster and inveterate gambler—a _shyster_ as someone once called him, a word that had fascinated Jared’s younger self—and he hadn’t been above using Jared in his scams. From a young age, he’d learned how to play the doe-eyed innocent to give his father credibility.

So, _no_ , playing the game wasn’t a problem for him.

The problem was how this particular game seemed to require Jensen to be all over him, because, honestly, who could concentrate on anything when Jensen Ackles was whispering seductively in your ear and leaning close, his hand on your waist, everything about the way he touched you suggesting he was very familiar with your body.

The shots Jensen was buying weren’t conducive for clarity of thought either.

“Is he watching us?”

Jared moved back a little. “You’re pretty much humping my leg. I think a lot of people are watching us.”

Jensen snorted, threw back a shot, then took a sip of beer. “In this place? I doubt it. There’s a guy in the corner getting his dick sucked by a girl half his age.”

“In the corner. In the dark. We’re center stage.”

Jensen smirked and lowered his hand so he was cupping Jared’s ass. “That’s the point, junior. We want to get noticed. That’s our way in with this guy. He likes to invite people who catch his eye to private parties upstairs. And I’ve got to say you are looking pretty eye-catching tonight in those tight jeans.” He ran his eyes down Jared’s body. “Much better than your usual nerdy hacker look. If I had all that muscle, I wouldn’t hide it.”

Jared ignored the back-handed compliment. “I swear to god, Jensen. If you call me junior again, I will break one of your fingers.”

Jensen lifted his hand and squeezed Jared’s bicep. “I believe you, big boy. You know I like it when you’re mean to me.”

Jared laughed. “Why does that not surprise me. Of course you’re a masochist.”

“A little pain with the pleasure makes it that much sweeter, baby,” Jensen drawled, all long Texas vowels and softened consonants.

Jared smiled and unconsciously moved closer. “And, of course, you’re originally from Texas. You’ve tried hard to lose it but the accent’s still there. Makes sense of all that macho competitiveness too.”

“Can’t win if you’re not competing, baby.” Jensen cocked his head, his eyebrows arched and smirk in place, his hand back on Jared’s ass, a warm pressure that made Jared lean into him.

Jared lowered his head, so their faces were only inches apart. “You know baby’s just another word for junior, right? And I should break one of your fingers anyway for touching my ass without my permission.”

Jensen leaned back, the top half of his body communicating competitive arrogance, throwing his hips forward at the same time so the bottom half signaled sexual intent. Jared could feel the hard strength of his thigh muscle and the jut of his hipbone.

“C’mon, be honest, you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t want to be asked permission. And you know threatening to break somebody’s fingers is not actually in the flirtation hand-book, right?”    

Jared grinned, forgetting where they were for a moment, just enjoying the banter. “It is the way I do it.” He shifted his stance so their hips fitted closer together, watching with interest the dilation of Jensen’s pupils and the way his mouth opened slightly on an indrawn breath. Mimicking Jensen’s earlier tone, he fluttered his eyelashes and whispered coyly, “Don’t pretend you don’t like it, daddy.”  

Jensen threw his head back and laughed outright.

When Jensen faced him again, still smiling, it just felt natural for Jared to pull him forward, his eyes on Jensen’s mouth, the alcohol swimming through him and making him forget why it was a very, very bad idea to be doing this, even if it was all part of the game.   

Jensen drew in a sharper breath, his expression changing, the role-playing shifting into something less playful. Jared swallowed hard.

“Excuse me,” a voice broke in, a moment before the unthinkable happened.

They pulled apart guiltily at the interruption, the spell between them broken, Jared suddenly remembering where they were.

“We’ve got a private room upstairs if you’re looking for a party.”

Jared recognized him as one of the companions of the guy they were investigating.   

Almost instantly back in role, Jensen said, “We’ve got a party going on right here.” He put a possessive hand on Jared’s hip.

It took Jared longer to pull himself together. He shifted uncomfortably under Jensen’s hand.

The guy didn’t notice, looked at Jared with open admiration and said, “If you’re into sharing, we’re upstairs.” He gave them an encouraging look, shrugged, leaving it up to them, and turned away.

Jensen gave Jared a triumphant smirk, which Jared tried to reciprocate. He obviously failed because Jensen frowned and said, “You ready for this, Padalecki?"    

The tone and use of his last name made him feel stupid and naïve. He’d been about to kiss Jensen, not in role but with real feeling, and Jensen had wanted him to do it. But clearly only Jared thought that was a big deal.

“Sure,” he said abruptly, trying to get his head back in the game.

 

Jared felt like he was sliding into a shallow tank full of sharks as soon as they walked into the large private lounge upstairs.

There was the usual array of people in a place like this. A lot of scantily-clad escorts; some hangers-on to the rich and powerful looking to work their way upwards; a few hard-faced young men, lieutenants in criminal organizations trying to fit into high society; models and fashion photographers looking for the edge of society and not finding it here; corporate types trying to unwind from the daily money chase.

“Christ,” Jensen said, snorting in derision as he looked around.        

There was a bodyguard at the door who gave them a hard look. “Nice haircut,” Jensen said facetiously. Most of his head was shaved, just a long black ponytail at the back hanging down to his waist.

Jared would bet that kind of natural belligerence frequently got Jensen into trouble. “We’re with him,” he said amenably, indicating the guy who’d spoken to them downstairs.

The guy they were really here for—Frankie Lange, heir to his father’s steel empire, key to Misha’s next deal—got up from a low leather couch near the door and said, “No, you’re with me.”

The bodyguard gave Jensen a dark look and stepped back to allow them in.

“I’m Frankie,” he said, shaking Jensen’s hand, his eyes on Jared.

He was in his late twenties but looked younger, had a spoilt-boyishness about him which led people to underestimate him, a belligerent set to his jaw and a cruel glint in his eye from proving them wrong. He exuded smug arrogance.

Jensen smiled. A hard, bright flash of teeth. “This is Jared.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before, Jared. I would’ve remembered.”

“He doesn’t get out a lot. I keep him busy,” Jensen said. Another sharp smile.

Jared gritted his teeth and said nothing, let them play out the negotiation, knew how it worked, had been in this kind of position before.

“I bet you do. Can my friend Nick introduce you to some people in the room while I get to know Jared better? Whatever you want or need.”

The guy from earlier appeared at Jensen’s elbow.

Jensen nodded.

Jared felt like he’d just been auctioned off at a slave market. There was something familiar about it, a memory from the past raising its ugly head in his consciousness. A pit was forming in his stomach and he was feeling light-headed, partly from all the shots, but also because he suddenly felt out of his depth. He didn’t want to be doing this. But he also didn’t want Jensen to think he was rookie kid who couldn’t handle himself so he started to obediently follow Frankie.

Jensen suddenly pulled him back and whispered in his ear, “The safe word is _let’s-get-the-fuck-outta-here_. Okay?”

Jared nodded and walked away without saying anything. Silence had always been his cloak of protection. _“Cat got your tongue, Jared?_ a man had once said to him when he was twelve years old. Such a terrifying image if you really thought about it. A cat scampering out of the room with your torn tongue hanging from its mouth.

Frankie led him to a raised dais in an alcove area of the room. There was a collection of couches and chairs filled with people surrounding a low glass table. One guy was snorting coke off a woman’s breast.

They sat down, Frankie close to him, looking at him admiringly. “Man, you’re big, Jared.” He ran his hand up Jared’s arm and squeezed his bicep, touching him like he had the right to do it. Jared tried not to flinch.

Everything around him got reduced to sense images.  

A couch. A man. A table. Lines of white powder, soldier-straight. A lot of noise. A lot of people. Limited choices. And the sudden, weird image of a black cat running off with his tongue.

“Do you want a line, Jared?” Frankie asked him, offering him a metal tube and indicating the lines of coke on the table. “It’ll loosen you up.”

Jared looked up to see if Jensen was watching, and of course he was. Nick was introducing him to somebody on the other side of the room, but his eyes were on Jared, his expression unreadable.

Jared should’ve said no, half considered it. _Should’ve_. _Could’ve_. Would’ve if Jensen hadn’t been watching him so intently, if he hadn’t handed him over to Frankie like he owned him, if he hadn’t looked at him the way he did when Jared was about to kiss him earlier.

He took the tube, did a line, and let Frankie stroke the inside of his thigh when he leaned back, even widened his legs to allow him better access, watching Jensen watching him as the powder bomb of coke hit his central nervous system.

When it subsided to a languid sparkle through his veins, he turned and concentrated on what he was here for. The job of Frankie Lange.

 

***

It was like watching Jared turn into a stranger, somebody Jensen had never even met. He fumed inwardly, angrily clenching his hands into fists, surprised by the intensity of his response to seeing Jared getting coked-up and letting that rich asshole climb all over him. Nobody’d asked him to go that deep under cover. What the hell was he doing?

“Hey, are you listening to me?”

Jensen swallowed the contents of a flute of champagne. “Sure, darlin’, I’m listening.”

He wasn’t listening at all. How could he when he was unable to tear his eyes away from Jared getting pawed by Frankie Lange. The alcohol wasn’t helping either. Drinking too much was part of the problem. It wouldn’t have got so out of hand between them downstairs if he hadn’t been half-drunk. He’d just forgotten where they were for a while. Jared was so damn distracting.

“So, I was saying, Frankie gambles at a place downtown…”

This is why he hadn’t wanted to work with Jared. There was too much tension between them. It made him act unprofessionally.

And Jared was supposed to be a player, had grown up in this life, was supposed to be able to handle himself. That little-lost-boy expression on his face just for a second earlier as Frankie led him away had totally thrown Jensen. He’d almost called the whole thing off when he’d seen it.

 _But you didn’t_ , a voice said in his head. _You put this into play. You threw him at Frankie Lange like a piece of bait. You knew Jared was his type._

“Hey man, it’s your money. If you’re not interested in information on Frankie, you’re just wasting my time here.”

Jensen shook himself out of his thoughts. “Sorry.” He surreptitiously passed the call-girl he was talking to a hundred bucks. “Thanks for the information.”

Jensen clenched his teeth as he watched Frankie put his hand on Jared’s crotch, had to slow down his breathing to stop himself from going over there, picking the guy up and bodily throwing him across the room.

“Do you want a blow-job?”

Jensen turned and choked on a laugh when he saw the girl standing next to him. She was probably a pro but looked no more than sixteen-years-old. Slim and long-limbed, small-breasted, a halo of tight dark curls around a gamine face, a spatter of freckles on her nose.

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “But I prefer getting my dick sucked by somebody who’s actually lost their baby teeth.”

She laughed, a girly chuckle of amusement. “I’m older than I look. Some guys like it.”

“Not me,” Jensen said shortly. “Your mother know where you are?”

The girl shrugged.

“There are other ways of getting through life, you know. You don’t have to be in a place like this. There are other choices.”

The girl laughed again. “That’s pretty fucking hypocritical, considering.”

“I’m old enough and mean enough to take care of myself. You should be at home doing your homework.”

The girl shrugged again. “What you’re doing isn’t very noble, you know.”

Jensen turned to face her. “What? Giving advice to a kid who’s obviously lost her way? Do you even know what nobility is?”

“I do. I’m reading this great book of fantasy short stories and it’s all about nobility, how the characters struggle to suppress their selfish desires for the sake of a higher purpose. That’s basically the definition of nobility, don’t you think?”

Jensen smiled, charmed by her cuteness. “I don’t read fantasy. More of a realist kind of guy.”

The girl studied his face. “Yeah, I can tell that about you. But I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about your guy over there.” She inclined her head in Jared’s direction.

Jensen’s smile faded. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.”

Undeterred, she asked, “He is your guy, right? The one who’s getting himself mauled by Frankie. Are you one of those pervs who gets off on watching your boyfriend get screwed by other guys? Or are you just an asshole who’ll let somebody like Frankie screw your boyfriend so you can get a deal done?”

Jensen let out a sharp bark of surprised laughter. “Christ, kid, you don’t pull any punches.”

She shrugged again and rubbed her nose, making her look like a plucky (and simultaneously slutty) little heroine in a sentimental musical. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Jensen reached into his back pocket and pulled out a card. “That’s my number. If you ever get yourself into trouble or need help, give me a call, no strings attached.”  

She wrinkled her nose and ignored the card. “I don’t want your card, daddy-o. I want to know how you’re going to suppress your selfish desires and rescue that beautiful-looking guy over there from the evil clutches of Frankie Lange.”

Not seeing any pockets in her skimpy outfit, Jensen tucked the card into the thin shoulder-strap of her dress. He sighed and looked at Jared. “Honestly, I don’t fucking know. I think if I go over there and use the safe word on him, he’ll just ignore me. It’s his to use, not mine, and he’s obviously not planning on using it.”

“He’s punishing you because you put him in that position in the first place. I saw how you handed him off to Frankie when you arrived. You hurt him so now you have to pay for it.”

Jensen laughed. “You’re reading more into it than there is. This isn’t one of your stories. It’s not like that.”

The girl shook her head. “You’re pretty stupid, right?”

Jensen laughed loudly, making the people around them look over. “That has been said about me.”

The girl nodded, unsurprised. “Safe words aren’t going to cut it. You’re going to have to go over there and make a bold gesture.”

“Right,” Jensen mused. “Any idea what?”

“I’m not going to do _all_ your thinking for you. You’ll have to figure it out yourself. But you were playing a role to get in here, right? I can spot another real player a mile off. Not like these idiots” She waved an airy hand to take in everyone else in the room.

“So, go over there and do something big that will get you out of here without pissing off either Frankie or your guy. It’s the only way you’ll be leaving with him. It’ll have to be something stupid, which shouldn’t be too difficult for you. Something embarrassing. You’ll get away with it if you’re ready to humiliate yourself.”

She gave him a roguish wink. “Good luck, bold and noble knight. Go and make it right.”

Jensen watched her walk away, amused and slightly dazed at the same time.

 _‘Okay,’_ he thought, drawing in a deep breath, knowing she was right. ‘ _I can do stupid and humiliating.’_

 

Jared looked up blankly when Jensen stood over him. 

Knowing this needed an audience to work, Jensen addressed him loudly enough for everybody around the table to stop what they were doing and look at him. “I can’t do it, Jay. I know you need space. I know you said we need more spice and excitement in our relationship. But I just can’t, baby. Not like this.”

There was a brief silence, then somebody laughed mockingly.

Frankie looked unimpressed. “Get him out of here,” he ordered.

The bodyguard with the stupid haircut appeared, but before he could do anything, Jensen sank theatrically to his knees and gripped Jared’s thighs. Jared frowned at him in confusion. It bothered the hell out of Jensen to see him so high and unfocused. He tightened his grip, exaggerating the tremor in his voice. “I love you, Jay. Come home with me right now. Let me show you how much I love you. Let me worship you with my body.”

That met with a lot of derisive laughter. “Who _is_ this guy?” somebody asked.

Jared’s expression cleared, realization dawning. His lips quirked, but he stayed where he was, waiting expectantly.

“I need you, baby. You’re all the best parts of me. You complete me.”

He pulled Jared roughly towards him. Both of them were half-smiling when their lips touched. Jensen was going to give him an exaggerated movie-kiss that would really seal the whole performance but got distracted by the warmth of his lips. Instead, he pushed his fingers into Jared’s hair and angled him, so he could kiss him properly. Jared hesitated then responded by opening his mouth to let Jensen’s tongue in.

Heat spread through Jensen’s body and he almost forgot where they were until a woman’s voice said, “Oh my god, that’s so romantic.”

Jensen eventually pulled away and turned to give Frankie an exaggerated look of contrition. “I’m sorry, Frankie. I can’t let you have him. He just means too much to me. I’m lost without him.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Frankie snapped. He looked at Jared. “Both of you. Christ, you’re embarrassing yourselves, and me.”

 

The girl was standing near the exit as Jensen left, Jared in tow, and gave him a cheeky little smile as he passed her, before turning back to an old guy who was clearly hanging on her every word.

 

Jared was quiet in the taxi. Jensen wasn’t sure what to say, felt like he needed to apologize for something but wasn’t sure how to.

When Jared asked the driver to drop him off first, Jensen said, “What? You’re not even putting out after that magnificent performance?”       

Jared gave him a small smile. He was clearly still high, his pupils dilated and skin gleaming with a slight sheen of sweat, but he seemed calm and in control. “It really was something, Jensen.”

He continued looking out the window until they pulled up to the corner near where he lived.

As he got out, Jensen said, “I’m sorry.”

Jared turned back and looked at him. “What for?”

“I don’t know. I’m just sorry.”

“Okay,” Jared gave him another small half-smile and got out the cab.

 


	3. Old Friends

“A guy called Jeff Morgan left a message for you this morning, said he was staying at the Plaza and wanted you to call him back.”

Fortunately, Jensen was throwing a tennis ball up and down in the air as he said this and didn’t see the way Misha gripped the sides of his laptop in response. Misha carefully unclenched his hands, took a deep breath and let it out surreptitiously. But not surreptitiously enough.

Jensen caught the ball, turned his head, his eyes narrowing. “Who is he?”

Jensen was like one of those intricate machines that registered earthquakes ten thousand miles away. He was alert to any kind of emotional disturbance. It was one of the reasons they had connected with each other - that immediate, deep-down recognition of somebody who was like you and unlike other people, who made you feel less alone in the world. Despite their obvious differences, he and Jensen were made the same underneath.

“Nobody.”

Jensen raised his eyebrows, lowered his legs and sat up on the couch, facing Misha. “Nobody?”

Misha closed his laptop and leaned back in his office chair. “Nobody you need to know about. How did it go with Jared yesterday?” It was a ploy. Mentioning Jared was an easy way to distract Jensen.

On cue, Jensen collapsed back on to the couch with a sigh and started bouncing the ball off the ceiling. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Misha asked, using the same questioning tone of voice against him.

Jensen grinned, but didn’t stop bouncing the ball. “Nothing you need to know about, Misha,”

“He was really quiet today. Did you push him too hard?”

Jensen caught the ball and looked at it, rubbed the surface with his thumb. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Misha waited, knowing Jensen shied away if he was pushed too hard.

“I think something happened to him before. He’s damaged. And he’s not completely reliable out there, on the job. He might be too sensitive for this kind of work.”

“A lot of somethings happened to me before. A lot of somethings happened to you. He’s no more damaged than we are. He’ll be fine. He’s just trying to work out who he is. Don’t you remember what that was like?”

Jensen studied the tennis ball and remained silent.

“Are you going to fall for him?” Misha asked quietly.

Jensen rolled over onto his side, tucked the cushion he was leaning against more comfortably under his head and looked at Misha. “Would that be a problem?”

“Not for me.”

Jensen nodded like he’d known that. He held Misha’s gaze. “But you think it will be a problem for me? Or maybe for him?”

Misha didn’t answer. People rarely appreciated being told something they already half-knew. Whatever was going to happen between Jensen and Jared would play out anyway, regardless of what he said in this moment.

Jensen got up. “Good talk. Thanks, Doctor Phil. Don’t forget to call Mister Nobody who means nothing to you and didn’t make you want to crush your laptop with your bare hands.”

Jensen shut the door behind him and Misha steeled himself to make the call.

***

Misha met Jeff Morgan fifteen years ago. They’d actually met before that, at Harvard, but hadn’t really known each other because Jeff had been older and the captain of the football team, and Misha had been the youngest captain of the poetry society in its history.

They properly met for the first time at a social function at an ambassadorial residence (Bolivia or possibly Greece) a few years later, both of them dragged there by their parents.

Jeff had been drunk and Misha had been stoned. Misha was just learning how to really piss off his parents and Jeff had already perfected the skill. They both hated their fathers and pitied their mothers, had grown up without the camaraderie of siblings, both smart and charismatic, always surrounded by people but friendless and angrily solitary.

Misha was talking knowledgably about a 12th century Chinese poet that he’d totally made up to a Bolivian (possibly Greek) poet when Jeff walked up to him and said, “You’re so full of shit. Everything that comes out of your mouth is a complete lie.”

Intrigued, Misha followed him when he walked away.

They spent the night in a park, talking until morning broke, and then went to a diner for breakfast where Jeff climbed up onto the table to emphasize a point he was making, startling all the sleepy-eyed customers drinking their coffee.

If it was possible to fall in love with a person in a single moment, then that’s what happened to Misha. Later, he grew to feel something like hatred for Jeff but the hold he had over him never really went away.

Misha hadn’t seen him for years. He seemed to spend most of his time globe-trotting, particularly in South America and Africa where billionaires made shady deals with governments and state-owned corporations.

He supposed both of them had turned out a lot like the fathers they’d once despised. Jeff’s father had been a hard, cruel, avaricious man interested only in money and power. Misha’s father had been a born politician, a silver-tongued manipulator.

He guessed Jeff had also inherited his sexual appetites from his father. Naïve as he’d been in his younger years, Misha hadn’t realized that love and sex could be used as weapons or that there were people who couldn’t really tell the difference between pleasure and pain.

***

He called Jeff as soon as Jensen left, knowing if he didn’t, it would hang over him all night and he’d get no sleep.

“It’s Misha.”

It was silent for so long that he asked, “Jeff? Are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry, I am. The sound of your voice just threw me for a second. God, you sound good, Misha.”

“Always the flatterer,” he replied dryly.

Jeff laughed, a rich baritone sound that still had the ability to send heat curling through Misha’s body.

“Always the cynic,” Jeff replied. “It’s not flattery. You have a charming voice. You should record audiobooks, preferably romances for women.”

Misha snorted. “So, you’re back in town.” He heard a rustle of paper, the squeaking of a chair and then Jeff’s voice sounded clearer in his ear.

“Yeah, got back a few days ago. I’m at the Plaza, moving into a new apartment tomorrow. Have dinner with me tonight, Misha.”

“I’ve got plans.” He wasn’t going to drop everything just because Jeff asked him to. He wasn’t that person anymore. “Is that why you called me?”

“I’d like to see you. It’s been years, Misha. I’ve been working all day. I’m tired and need some company.  Please.”

All it took was that one word for Misha to start succumbing to the familiar, irresistible pull that Jeff exerted.  

Jeff heard it in his voice. “Come and meet me at the hotel. Half an hour?”

“No,” he said firmly. “In an hour. There’s an Italian place on 57th Street.”

In an amused, agreeable voice Jeff replied, “Okay. I’ll be there.”

 

Jeff had aged. There was grey in his beard and he’d lost weight. Irritatingly, it just made him look more attractive. Some men had that quality. Age sat well on them. He was dressed in black, looked stylish and lean, his tattoos showing where he’d rolled up his sleeves, confident sophistication and intimidating toughness in one package, his trademark grin in place as Misha walked over to the table where he was standing.

He pulled Misha into a bone-crushing hug. “God, you look good, Misha.” He stepped back and studied him. “You’ve lost the long hair.” He stroked Misha’s head. It was obviously an unconscious gesture because he immediately pulled his hand back and murmured an apology. 

Misha drew in a quick breath, startled by the casual physical intimacy, but kept his expression carefully neutral and his tone even when replied, “A few years ago.” He looked Jeff over. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Yes, too much travelling and work, not enough home-cooked meals.”

They sat down and a server brought them some menus and took their drinks order. Jeff leaned back in his chair, lifted the fashionable, black-rimmed glasses he was wearing and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been poring over paperwork for the past three hours. Thanks for saving me from it. I really do appreciate you changing your plans tonight to keep me company.”

“What are old friends for?”

Jeff smiled. “Is that what we are? Old friends?”

Misha shrugged and studied the menu. He drank some water, hadn’t ordered a drink because he wanted to stay clear-headed. He looked up and watched Jeff swirl the bourbon in his glass before taking a deep, appreciative sniff.

Instantly, Misha was transported into the past. In the early days, when they first met, Jeff had told him he was planning on dying of cirrhosis by the time he was twenty-five. He spent a few months trying to steadily drink his way through half a bottle of bourbon a day, carried a flask with him and poured it into everything. Misha once watched him pour half milk and half bourbon over his morning cereal just to get a head start on his daily quota. _“Heroin would be quicker,”_ Misha had said to him. Jeff had looked at him mockingly. _“Don’t be so unimaginative, Misha. Heroin doesn’t take any effort. This is a project.”_

Jeff’s dad drank bourbon; therefore suicide-by-bourbon had been Jeff’s chosen way out. At the time, Misha had even half-admired the lengths Jeff would go to screw over his emotionally abusive father.   

“You’ve bought an apartment?” he asked, trying not to think about the apartment, the nights and breakfasts he’d shared with Jeff.

“Yeah, in downtown Manhattan. I need a base here in the city. I’m getting tired of living out of a suitcase.”

The server came over again and they ordered their meals. Jeff leaned back in his chair and looked intently at him, that faint smile lingering on his mouth - humor, cynicism and wolfish sexuality in one expression. Misha met his gaze silently, didn’t look away or say anything. Most people found that intimidating, but not Jeff. His smile widened.

“It’s good to see you, Misha. I hear you’re doing really well for yourself. Not that I’m surprised. You always were smart and talented. I’m not exactly sure what it is you do, though.”

“Neither am I.”

Jeff laughed. “Right. I’ve heard some interesting theories.” His tone became hushed. “Some people claim you’re a member of the Illuminati.”

Misha snorted.

“Mostly, though, people seem to agree that you do a lot of event organization for charities. High-society stuff, all those important social and political connections. You always were a part of that world.”

Misha responded to the implied criticism. “And you were always more at home on the rough side of the street, pretending you didn’t come from where you did.”

“There it is, that sharp tongue, knowing just how to put a man in his place,” Jeff replied with a grin. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Misha. Your sophistication and the way you have with people is admirable. I remember what it was like. Five minutes after meeting somebody they’d be telling you their whole life story. And you were always so good at keeping other people’s secrets.”

They shared a look. It was strange making polite conversation like this when they were both so intimate with each other’s secrets and the hidden parts of themselves they’d shared when they were young. Jeff had shown Misha the darkest part of himself, the part that came out during violent sex or when he was drunk or high and feeling like hurting himself or somebody else.   

Jeff looked away and shook his head. “Me, I just felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere.”

“That’s because you refused to fit in. You wanted everything done your way.”

Jeff smiled wryly and nodded. “Always the square peg.”

For Jeff’s 25th birthday Misha gave him a platinum square peg with the inscription ‘a square peg in a round world’ and a ten-years-sober chip that he bought off a guy who’d fallen off the wagon, knowing Jeff would appreciate the authenticity. He intentionally took him to a really expensive, pretentious restaurant he knew Jeff would hate. Jeff sent his meal back three times, criticizing everything until they were the last people in the restaurant, Jeff silently watching Misha as he slowly chewed his way through the plate of food, all the staff standing and waiting for them to leave. They used to practice emotional cruelty on each other and became experts at it.      

 “Are you seeing anybody?”

Their food arrived as Jeff asked the question. Misha thought he’d dodged it, but then Jeff brought it up again.

Misha found himself saying, “I have a partner, somebody I work with. We’ve been seeing each other for a few years.” Technically, it was half true. There was a sexual element to his relationship with Jensen, even if it seemed to have ended with Jared’s arrival in their lives. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to lie. Maybe because he felt safer letting Jeff think he was in a relationship.

Jeff chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then took a sip of his drink before responding. “A man called Jensen Ackles?”

Misha wasn’t surprised. Both of them knew how valuable a commodity information was.

“Do you always need to know the answer before you ask a question?”

Jeff grinned wryly. “We’ve got that in common. I’m happy for you. I really am.”

Misha didn’t ask him if he was in a relationship. It seemed doubtful. It would take a very singular sort of person to stay with Jeff for any length of time, and anyway, there were always places where men like Jeff could get their particular needs met.

“Have you got any recommendations for things to see and do in New York? I need some exposure to culture. Been away from home for too long to even remember what people do.”

Misha ignore the implied suggestion that he could be the one to show Jeff around. He talked very generally about things to do in the city: art galleries, music and theater.

They finished the meal, sticking to carefully neutral topics.

After they’d split the bill and were putting their coats on outside the restaurant entrance, Jeff said to him, “I’d like to talk to you about something, Misha. But not now. During business hours. Can I call you tomorrow?”

Instantly wary, Misha hesitated, knowing he should say no. Getting mixed up with Jeff never ended well for him. Jeff waited him out, that amused, cynical smirk on his face.

Eventually Misha shrugged. “Alright.”

“Thank you. It really is good to see you again, Misha. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He gave him another grin and then strode down the street.

Misha watched him go, taking deep breaths of the cool night air as if he’d been holding his breath all night.

 

***

Jensen was feeling stressed. Not only did his car get stolen while he was out on a job—an incident that caused him an epic amount of stress—but both Misha and Jared were acting weird and neither of them would talk to him about it, despite his best efforts.

Jensen wasn’t exactly a let’s-discuss-our-feelings kind of guy. An ex-boyfriend had once called him conversationally stunted and emotionally constipated. But he understood the value of talking and getting things out into the open. Neither Misha or Jared were talking. In fact, they were pretty obviously trying to avoid him unless somebody else was in the room. He knew this was because they were afraid they might inadvertently reveal something if he got them on their own.

Jensen was good at figuring out what people were hiding, mostly because he listened to what they weren’t saying rather than what they were. It was a skill that made people he’d known for a long time really nervous when they were trying to keep something from him.

And Jensen already knew what both of them were trying to hide anyway, or at least the broad strokes of it, so their avoidance was really starting to irritate him.

Misha was trying to keep this thing with Jeff Morgan a secret. He didn’t want Jensen to know he was doing Jeff a favor of some kind, something he didn’t want to do but was going to anyway because they had a history together.

Jensen had seen what it was about Jeff that had Misha making stupid decisions when he came into the office the other day. The guy was a jungle cat - stealthy, fascinating, dangerous and solitary. All the qualities Misha pretended he was too smart and sophisticated to be taken in by. Except that Jeff clearly was _exactly_ the kind of guy Misha would be glamoured by, especially if he’d first met him when he was young, back before Misha had developed his hard, grown-up shell. That cover every adult grows over their wild, original child-self. Still there under the surface and always peskily waiting to sabotage your mature, rational decision-making.

Jensen started bristling as soon as he met Jeff, a reaction that made Jeff get all handsy with Misha just to see if he could piss him off. He obviously thought they were in a relationship. And while that wasn’t true, he succeeded in achieving his goal. Jensen had really wanted to hurt the guy. It wasn’t possessive jealousy or anything. It was never about that with Misha. He loved Misha, a deep-down, true, fiercely loyal kind of love that included wanting to fuck him sometimes but wasn’t dependent on it. The reason he’d wanted to physically hurt Jeff was because he could tell that he didn’t give a shit if his actions ended up hurting anybody, including Misha.

Misha was, of course, smart enough to be wary, but he wasn’t smart enough to just avoid the guy completely.

The problem with Jared was absurdly similar.

Jared obviously thought he was being really smart by avoiding Jensen because he thought he might be that kind of guy too. The kind of guy who did what he wanted, regardless of the effects on other people. And admittedly Jensen hadn’t been particularly sensitive or insightful the other night. Jared clearly hadn’t been ready to handle a situation like the one with Frankie Lange. But he scrambled Jensen’s systems, made him less sharply perceptive, less able to read Jared’s signals because he didn’t know if he wanted to challenge him to some kind of physical contest or protect him from the big, bad world out there or just kiss him into submission.    

***

One of the ways Jared had been trying to avoid him was by switching up the times he went to the gym. He went really early in the morning or at weird times in the afternoon when nobody else was there or late at night before it closed. But if Jared thought it was an effective avoidance strategy, he had another thing coming. Jensen studied people’s routines and behavior for a living.

It was 4:00 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon and Jensen was sitting on the bench opposite Jared’s locker waiting for him to get out of the shower. It was a simple plan: catch Jared when he wasn’t expecting it (when he was in just a towel) and force him to acknowledge that they needed to have a conversation.

Jared came around the corner, and Jensen had to hand it to him, he pretty much instantly hid his reaction at seeing Jensen guarding his locker like the trained attack dog he'd accused him of being.

Jensen slid his legs forward and propped his boots up against Jared’s locker, casually smiling and leaning back as if he was just getting more comfortable. “Hi, Jared.”

Jared glanced at the locker, then at Jensen. He clenched his jaw and walked up to him. He was sleek and wet, his hair dripping water on his shoulders, a very small white towel around his waist.

“Good workout?”

Jared shrugged and looked pointedly at Jensen’s legs. “That’s my locker.”

“Oh, sorry, am I in your way?” Jensen lifted his legs and lounged back on the bench giving Jared only a fraction more room.

Jared looked at the locker, just wanting to get to his clothes. He was holding the towel around his waist, obviously feeling exposed and unsure because he was wet and naked. He looked at the narrow space allowed by Jensen’s proximity to what he wanted and clenched his jaw again.

Jensen smirked and said, “Do you want to go for a beer?”

“No, Jensen, I don’t. It’s four in the afternoon.”

“How about later?”

“I’m busy later.”

“How about tomorrow?”

Jared put his hands on his hips. “Jensen, I need to get dressed and you’re in my way.”

Jensen leaned back on his elbows and gave him a gimme-your-best-shot look. “I’m just sitting here. Let me buy you a cup of coffee instead, or hell, how about we go to that vegan organic juice bar on the corner and I buy you a turmeric, coconut-water and spinach colonic irrigator or whatever?”

Jared looked at him silently, frowning and obviously frustrated. He sighed and Jensen thought he was going to capitulate, but then Jared loosened the towel around his waist and dropped it to the floor. “I need to get dressed. Please move out of my way.”

Jensen swallowed hard. He'd definitely had the advantage when Jared was in a towel dripping water all over the floor, but naked, Jared held all the cards because, _fuck_ , who could concentrate on anything when faced with all that? Christ, he was beautiful.

Jensen’s heart was racing and he could feel heat flood his cheeks. All he needed to do was lean forward slightly and his face would be in Jared’s crotch. All he needed to do was open his mouth and take that beautiful, soft cock into his mouth and suck him into hardness. It was all he wanted to do.

Jared looked at him steadily. “If you carry on looking at me like that, I’m going to get hard, and this is not the place.”

Somebody slammed a locker near them and they could hear voices coming from the showers.  

Jensen cleared his throat and got to his feet. “Fine, you win, but you can’t avoid me forever.”


	4. Sherlock & Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The references to the Red Cloak masquerade come from 'Eyes Wide Shut', vaguely, as I remember it.

Jensen was sitting on the leather couch in the outer office watching Jared studiously ignore him. He was hoping to stare him into submission but Jared was good, just worked on his computer as if he wasn’t even in the room, tapping away at the keyboard and occasionally frowning at the double screens in front of him.

“Can I talk to you, Jensen?” Misha asked, standing in the doorway. He was giving him an amused, pitying look. “It’s about a job.”

They went into his office and closed the door. Misha asked, “So, how fares the battle, brave soldier? Any advances made into Padalecki territory?” He held up a bottle of water. Jensen nodded, caught it when Misha threw it over, unscrewed the lid and drank.

Wiping his mouth, he answered, “We’re in siege mode. He’s hunkered down. But I’ve got him surrounded.”

Misha smiled. “Don’t underestimate him, Jensen. He’s a strategic thinker.”

“So am I. And I’m patient.”

“My money’s always on you.” Misha sat down behind his desk. “About the job. There’s a Red Cloak masquerade in two weeks’ time in Scarsdale. I need you to organize the security. Use the same guys as last time inside the house, but new ones on the outside. It’s a secure location, obviously. Here’s the number for the Grand Inquisitor’s security guy. He’s expecting a call from you today.”

Jensen took the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. “Right,” he answered, not keeping the note of derision out of his voice.    

“You disapprove?”

Jensen made a noncommittal grunt.

“Say it, Jensen.”

“You know I don’t give a shit how people get their rocks off, Misha. And Christ knows I jerked off for weeks after the last time thinking about that orgy I had to watch. It’s the bullshit Catholic stuff—the Grand Inquisitor, the very expensive call-girls in cloaks, the church incense—that pisses me off. Not to mention all the secret society crap, those creepy Venetian masks and passwords. Seriously, who do these people think they are? And don’t even get me started on the full orchestra and naked ballroom-dancing.”

Misha smiled. “For somebody who plays roles constantly in his working life, you’re very resistant to any fantasy elements during sex.”

“I just like to know who I’m fucking. Don’t make out like I’m strait-laced, Misha. I told you before, if you wanted me to put you in a bridle and to whip you with a riding crop like a little pony, I would’ve done it for you. I would’ve laughed the whole time, sure, but I’d have done it to make you happy.”

Misha replied dryly, “Thanks, Jensen. I appreciate that.”

Jensen’s expression grew serious. “So are you going to be participating during the next one?”

Misha looked away and shrugged evasively.

“Because I’d like to know if I’m going to walk into a room and find some guy in a black hood flagellating you on a cross.”

Misha looked at him. “That’s not going to happen because you’re not going to be there on the night. I want you to organize the security beforehand, that’s all.”

Jensen held his gaze. “If you’re participating, I want to be there. Anywhere that requires a paid-off doctor to be on site is not a place you’re going without me. What they did to that slave-boy last time was bad enough to put him in the hospital. God knows how much they had to pay to make that go away.”      

“I appreciate your protective loyalty, Jensen, but it’s not open for debate.”

Jensen sighed. He knew there was no moving Misha when he’d made up his mind. “Is Jeff Morgan on the invite list? From what I’ve heard, it’s his kind of thing. Pain and humiliation seem to get him off.”

Misha’s expression hardened. “You’ve been looking into him?”

“It’s what I do, Misha. I could tell you the names of every woman my dentist has ever slept with. I look into everybody.”

Misha looked at him steadily. “I’m asking you not to investigate him.”

Jensen shrugged.

“Jensen, I’m _asking_ you not to do it,” Misha insisted.

Jensen put his hands up defensively. “Okay. I hear you. Jeff Morgan’s off limits. Listen, Misha, be—”

Misha interrupted. “I know. Be careful. I will, Jensen. Thank you for always looking out for me. I appreciate our friendship more than you know.”

Jensen grinned. “I love you too.”

Misha smiled back at him. “I didn’t say that.”

Jensen got up. “You didn’t have to.”

“Jensen,” Misha said as he started walking out the room.

Jensen turned back “Yeah?”

“You’re going to have to push harder with Jared. He’s a better strategist and he’s a lot more patient than you are. He’s got trust issues and if you did something to make him feel like he can’t trust you, then he’s going to elude you, no matter how many tricks you use on him to try and win him over. Be open and honest. Apologize. Make him hear you out. But once you break through into the citadel, be careful or you’ll lose him for good. You only get one chance with somebody like Jared.”

Jensen smiled and said, “Thanks, Dr. Phil. I think I’m figuring that out.”

Jensen walked back through the outer office and didn’t look over at Jared. He tried not to feel a little hurt when he heard Jared’s sigh of relief behind him as he kept on walking.

***

Deciding on the direct approach, Jensen turned up at Jared’s apartment with a pizza and a six-pack of beer later that night.

“Hi.”

Jared looked at him coolly and leaned against the doorframe. He was barefoot, in a pair of loose jeans and a threadbare t-shirt. Jensen instantly wanted to shove him inside and climb all over him but suppressed that desire and waited patiently.

“What are you doing here, Jensen?”

Jensen could hear the Cowboys game on Jared’s TV. “I thought we could watch the game together. I brought pizza and beer.” He held them up as evidence and gave Jared his most winning smile.

Jared’s expression didn’t alter.

“Are you going to let me in?”

“It’s not okay, Jensen, to corner me like this at home. We can talk tomorrow at the office.”

He started to close the door but Jensen put his foot in the way. “Okay, you’re right. I shouldn’t have just turned up like this. But can you hear me out. Please.”

Jared sighed and waited.

“I behaved like an asshole the other night. I knew you were Frankie Lange’s type. I didn’t discuss the game plan with you and just handed you off to him without discussing strategy first. I didn’t treat you like an equal. I put you into play without asking if that’s how you wanted it to go down. I’m not good at being a team player because I’m not used to it.”

“Is everything you’re about to say going to include football metaphors?”

Jensen smiled but kept going. “You were right when you said I didn’t respect the work you’d done on that previous job. I was being arrogant. I deserved it when you called me a blunt instrument. I thought I was in the end-zone but couldn’t see the whole field. It was all about me and my ego and I fumbled the ball because of it. You’re the rookie newcomer and I was feeling threatened.”

Jared’s lips quirked. “Does that make you the ageing star-quarterback in this analogy, old man?”

Jensen grinned, then turned serious and said, “I flirted with you, got you drunk and then sent you out there not knowing if you were ready for it or not.”

Jared’s expression hardened. “I’m not a rookie, Jensen. I can handle myself.”

“I know you can. You’re smart as fuck, but you’re a clean player at heart and I don’t think you know how dirty the game can get. I’m not talking about on the field. I’m talking about how the game can be rigged before you even step foot on the field. I’m not a better player than you are. I’ve just been around for longer than you have.”

Jensen paused, watching the play of expressions across Jared’s face. “When I kissed you, I meant it. That wasn’t part of the game.”

Before Jared could respond, a door opened and an elderly woman poked her head out into the hallway. “I think you need to let him in, Jared, honey. He’s being honest. Also, I can’t concentrate on this latest episode of the Real Housewives with him pouring out his heart so loudly.”    

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ziegler.” Jared said with embarrassment and started to pull Jensen into his apartment. Jensen turned and gave Jared’s elderly neighbor a wink over his shoulder, which she returned before closing her door.

Jared shut his own door and looked at Jensen with exasperated amusement. “Did you bribe Mrs. Ziegler to help get you into my apartment?”

Jensen laughed. “I don’t think Mrs. Ziegler is the corruptible type.” He put the beers and pizza down on the kitchen counter and looked around Jared’s open-plan apartment. It was clean and tidy, high ceilings, big windows at the front, a couple of paintings on the walls.

Jared was leaning against the counter watching him. “Are you profiling my character through my apartment?”  

“Maybe.” Jensen took a beer from the six-pack. “Let’s see what we can see, Watson.” He went over to Jared’s fridge, opened it with a flourish and said in an affected British accent, “I give you Exhibit A. What do the contents of this refrigerator tell us about the man who lives in this apartment?”

Jared smiled and opened a beer. He pulled himself up onto the counter, took a sip and said, “That he’s a boring health nut?”

Jensen started looking through the contents of the fridge. “Upon first examination one might assume that to be true, Watson. There is way too much organic produce in here for any normal human being to consume safely without starting to pee green. But what does this half-eaten chocolate bar tell us about his more decadent side?”

Jared took another sip of his beer. “It’s only half-eaten. It suggests he has self-discipline. He doesn’t eat it all in one go.”

“Mmm, maybe it’s self-discipline, which would be very admirable, or maybe it’s an indicator of a personality trying too hard to keep his appetites in check.”

Jared clenched his jaw, took another long swallow of his beer, then swept his hand in a wide arc to indicate that his apartment was open to investigation.

Jensen moved into the living room area. Jared followed him and turned off the TV. Jensen sat down on the couch and looked out the window. “He chose an apartment on the top floor with big windows because he likes to see the sky at night and in the early morning. He has his head in the clouds.”

Jared perched on the edge of the couch. “Maybe it was just the first apartment he found that suited his needs.”

Jensen got up and crouched down at the built-in bookshelf against the opposite wall. He looked over his shoulder. “He’s a reader.” Jared shrugged and made himself more comfortable on the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table.

Jensen scanned the spines of the books. He pulled a couple out and made a pile next to him, turned around and sat cross-legged on the floor, looking through them. “He’s an _intellectual_ reader, Watson,” he said in a mock-awed tone. Jared smiled and took another swallow of his beer, watching Jensen with arched eyebrows, waiting to see what he’d say next, obviously expecting him to fail at the hurdle of his bookshelf.  

“There are some philosophers here. I think he’s interested in ethics and the connection between political philosophy and the development of legal systems. There are also some classic novels questioning the ability of social institutions to overcome man’s baser nature. Do you think our man feels himself to be in conflict with the law and civilized society?”

Jared burst into surprised laughter. “Damn, you’re good, Jensen.” He drained his beer and went into the kitchen, handed Jensen another when he came back. They clinked bottles.

Jensen raised his eyebrows. “Where to next, Watson?”

Jared gave him a long look then gestured towards the hallway into the rest of the apartment.

It was single-bedroomed place. Jensen ignored the bedroom for the moment and walked over to the bathroom. Jared followed him and they stood in the doorway looking in. “It’s all very clean and tidy.”

Jared smirked. “Not really an indicator of character, Sherlock. Just basic hygiene for most people.” They were standing really close together. Jensen took another sip of his beer and watched Jared’s eyes drop to his mouth. He licked his lips and smirked when Jared automatically did the same.

“Maybe not. But there’s something a little too neat and clean about our man. He’s afraid of mess and chaos, needs to control his environment too much.”

Jared smiled. “I’m sticking to the hygiene argument.”

Jensen stepped into the room and placed his beer on the edge of the bath. He looked at the seat lifted on the toilet and the toiletries on the counter. “No signs of a woman’s presence. Do you think he might be gay?”

Jared leaned against the doorjamb. “I think you might be onto something with that observation, Sherlock.”

Jensen picked up a razor, felt its sharpness, put it down, then picked up a bottle of cologne. “He likes good-quality things. And there are a lot of toiletries here for just one man. He might be a little too interested in his appearance.”

Jared laughed quietly and didn’t reply.

Jensen stepped in front of the bathroom mirror, glanced at Jared’s reflection, then looked at himself. He let the moment draw out, unscrewed the lid of the bottle of cologne, took a deep breath of it with his eyes closed. Jared was very quiet behind him. Jensen opened his eyes, gave him another look, poured a little cologne in one hand, rubbed his hands together and patted his cheeks.

It was an intrusively intimate thing to do and had the intended effect. He heard Jared’s in-drawn breath, looked down and waited. Jared stepped up behind him and breathed in the scent of his own cologne on Jensen’s skin. His breath stirred the short hairs at Jensen’s nape. Their eyes met in the mirror.

Jensen broke the moment by lifting his hand and placing it on the latch of the medicine cabinet to the side of the mirror. He lifted his eyebrows, asking permission. Jared nodded and took a step back.

Jensen cleared his throat. “More vitamins and supplements, and more hair products than one man could ever need, Watson. It’s like he doesn’t want us to know who he really is.” He paused when he saw the medicine bottle, took it out of the cabinet and looked at the label. “Out-of-date antidepressants. Why would he keep this where he could see them every day when he doesn’t seem to be taking them anymore?”

Jared gave him a steady look in the mirror. “Maybe because he needs a reminder of a bad time in his life when he needed them.”

Nodding, Jensen turned around and looked into the bedroom. Jared moved out of his way.  Jensen gently squeezed his arm as he walked past, a brief acknowledgment of the intimate information shared.

It was untidier in here. The bedcover was askew, a pile of shoes outside the closet, books jumbled on the bedside table. Jensen went over and sat down on Jared’s bed, moved the cover aside and slowly felt the contours of the mattress. “He sleeps on the left side. Personally, I prefer the right.”

Jared stayed in the bathroom doorway, his expression half-vulnerable, half-fierce, arms crossed defensively over his chest, heat in his cheeks.

Jensen looked at him and knew he was wearing that same expression of intense desire and vulnerability. He reached out and placed his hand on the drawer of the nightstand, waiting for Jared’s permission.

When it came, he opened the top drawer and took out a small wooden box. It contained a woman’s necklace, a man’s watch and an old photograph of a family of three on a beach. He gently closed the lid and put the box back in the drawer without saying anything.

He opened the second drawer down and took out a bottle of lube and a dildo, smirked and said, “I think you’re right about our man being gay, Jared,” stroking the dildo as he said it.

When Jared huffed a laugh, Jensen placed the lube and dildo on the nightstand and leaned back on his hands, waiting.

Jared walked over and pulled him forward, pressing Jensen’s face into his crotch. Jensen mouthed the line of his dick through his jeans, his hands on Jared’s ass.

“That was some seduction technique, Jensen.”

Jensen looked up. “It wasn’t seduction. It was me getting to know you.”

Jared reached out and stroked his face.“There’s something called small talk, you know. It’s how normal people get to know each other.”

Jensen unbuttoned Jared’s jeans. “Not my style. It takes too long. And people lie, put up a front when they’re talking about themselves.”

“So you think you know me now?”

Jensen pulled down the zip of Jared’s jeans. “I think we’re only just getting started.” He leaned forward and kissed his groin just above the line of his underwear.

Jared rubbed the back of Jensen’s head, then pulled open his jeans, pushed them lower, let them drop to his ankles. “How about you, Jensen? What are you all about?” He pulled down his underwear. “Do you like having a dick in your mouth?”

In answer, Jensen leaned forward and kissed the head of his cock, suckled until he was fully hard, moved his lips lower. Jared gripped his shoulders, let him suck him deeper, cradling the back of his head. His voice was ragged when he said, “Do you like it rougher?”

Jensen made a muffled sound of assent and Jared tightened his hands, pulled him even deeper. “Like that?”

Jensen couldn’t respond, his mouth and throat too full, his thinking centered on nothing more than the feeling of Jared pushing into him.

Pulling back slowly, holding his dick, Jared looked down at him, asked, “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Jensen cleared his throat. “Yes, Jared, I want you to kiss me.”

Fitting himself between Jensen’s thighs, Jared pushed him back onto the bed and lay on top of him, looked at him intently before kissing him. Jensen held him close and opened his mouth to his tongue. Jared kissed him slowly, deeply, then moved away and nuzzled his neck, “You smell like me.” He popped open the buttons of Jensen’s shirt and kissed his way down his chest, sucked a nipple into his mouth, making him arch and groan. “Do you like that?”

“I can pretty much guarantee I’m going to like anything you’re going to do to me. Are you planning on torturing me with questions the whole way through it, though?”  

“I’m just getting to know you, Jensen, what you like, what turns you on” Jared kissed his way down Jensen’s stomach, got lower, opened his jeans, pulled aside his underwear and licked a drop of pre-come from the head of his cock. “Do you want me to suck you? Do you want me to put a finger inside you while I do it? Do you want me to do it lubed or dry? Want it to hurt? Want my dildo in your ass at the same time instead, baby?” He looked up and blinked innocently, waiting for an answer.

Laughing, Jensen threw his head back. “Fuck you, Jared Padalecki.”

Grinning, Jared moved back up, leaned on his elbow next to him and said, “I’m just trying to understand you, Jensen, to probe the most intimate parts of you, to find out who you really are, to look into all the hidden rooms of your mind. Tell me what you want, baby.”

“You’re such an asshole. I think I’ve lost my erection.”

Jared lowered his hand and felt Jensen’s cock. “Nope. Definitely still there.”  

Jensen rolled on top of him. “You’re so irritating. You always challenge me on every single thing. You’ve been driving me crazy since I met you.”

Smiling, Jared lifted his hand and touched Jensen’s lips. “You have a beautiful mouth, Jensen.”

Jensen lowered his head and kissed him, pushed his tongue inside and rubbed his hips against him, achingly hard.

They pulled off the rest of their clothes, kissing until their lips tingled and numbed, a sensory overload of naked skin and sensation and hands and mouths. Jared rolled over and Jensen opened him up with his tongue and fingers, rolled on a condom and pushed inside him, Jared gripping the bedcover hard enough to tear it, pushing back, Jensen’s hands clenching hard and bruising his hipbones, spitting on his hand and lowering it to grip Jared’s cock, jerking him off as he thrust deep into him. The lost, breathless moments before release. The white-out of orgasm.

They lay on their backs afterwards, breath evening out, looking at the ceiling without seeing it.

“I’m starving.”

Jensen decided he really liked the sound of Jared’s laughter.

“Of course you are, Jensen.”

“Cold pizza and warm beer?”

“I think I might need another minute.”

Jensen got up and went into the bathroom. “Did I break you, Jared?”

Jared decided he really liked the sound of Jensen’s teasing voice, the sound of him peeing in his toilet like he lived here, the sight of his naked ass.

“Not on your best day, Jensen.”

Jensen came back into the bedroom and looked at him lying naked and spent on the bed. He paused. “That’s a sight I’ll never get tired of seeing.” He pulled on a pair of boxers Jared was pretty sure were his. “Have you got a microwave or do you think the death rays will give you cancer? C’mon, Jared, pizza, and the game on replay, let’s go.”

Jared smiled as he listened to him walking down the hallway tunelessly whistling some rock tune.

 


	5. Misha & Jeff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets darker in this chapter with some flashbacks to Misha’s childhood and his early relationship with Jeff. Warnings for emotional abuse and violent sexual relationships.

Misha lost his trust in adults at the age of six. Before that, he’d vaguely assumed they were all benevolent, oblivious giants who treated children like simple, breakable toys to be pampered and condescended to. Like most children, he put up with their head-ruffling and silly-talk because they were useful in providing him with the things he wanted: PB&J sandwiches, stories at bed-time, new toys. He endured the way they talked to him as if he was stupid and kept his own complicated inner-life a secret, instinctively knowing everything was just easier if he pretended to be what they wanted him to be.  

He was brought up by a series of child-minders, housekeepers and foreign au-pairs; his parents too busy with things Misha didn’t understand or have any real interest in understanding. He knew from eavesdropping that he was a _neglected, emotionally starved child_ who deserved the sympathy of the staff who worked for them because his parents were _rich and selfish assholes._ But, because he was a self-contained boy with many interests, he attributed these descriptions to the cutout, pretend version of himself that people thought he was, knowing it wasn’t the real Misha.

Mostly, he was happy enough, getting what he needed from the kind, generous people who worked for his family. There was one person in particular, Charlie, who worked outside, always trimming hedges and trees, mowing the lawns, burning dead branches and piles of leaves in big bonfires. He was a quiet, weather-beaten, patient man, who would let Misha follow him around. In the summer, they’d eat sandwiches together in the cool shade of the trees down near the lake.

The night Misha lost his faith in the benevolence of adults, he’d been having a nightmare. It was a familiar one. He’d been having it for weeks. A man with broken arms was following him along a dark road, a shadowy, relentless figure making horrible groaning noises like an animal. Misha wasn’t sure if the man was trying to hurt him or needed his help so the terror of being pursued was also colored with guilt.

The nightmare started after a boy fell off the swing at school. He fell on his arm, the broken bones distorting it into a twisted, ugly thing, not an arm but a broken shape under a loose sack of skin.

Shocked by the horror of it, Misha hesitated for a long time, not knowing what to do, before eventually running into the school building to get help, only just managing to ignore the powerful instinct compelling him to run in the opposite direction and hide behind a tree, to push his fingers into his ears and block out the sounds of the boy’s screams.

He woke up from the nightmare, breathless and sweaty and thirsty, got out of bed and went downstairs to get something to drink from the kitchen. He could hear the sound of a woman’s muffled laughter coming from the front living room. He went into the kitchen and drank a glass of juice before following the sound. The woman was on the couch, her head back, looking at his dad standing behind her.

She lifted her head and noticed Misha standing in the doorway. “Hey, baby.”

His dad looked up and demanded, “What are you doing out of bed, Misha?”

The woman’s very red dress was pulled down on one side and his dad’s hand was still holding her exposed breast, her nipple dark and brown like an acorn cup.

Mustering all the angry pride of his six-year-old self, Misha looked at them and said, “That’s disgusting.” 

The woman laughed. She sounded drunk. “It’s okay, baby. You can have some too. Want to have a little suck?”

His dad pulled the woman’s dress back up and ordered, “Go back to your room, Misha. You don’t want the man with the broken arms to catch you out of bed, do you.”

Misha had told his parents about the dream only yesterday. His father choosing to use it against him in this moment permanently severed any fragile bond of trust that existed between them.

He ran back upstairs and hid under the bedcovers, scared and confused, wishing he could rewind time or erase his own memory.

The next morning was a Sunday and they had breakfast together. His dad was using his falsely cheerful, loud voice, the one he normally used when other people were around. It was just Misha, his parents, and Maria making them breakfast, who were in the kitchen.

“For god’s sake, Morgan, can you stop talking so loudly. I’ve got a splitting headache. The only way to endure that terrible charity benefit last night was to drink copious amounts of champagne.”

His father was being more physically demonstrative with him, squeezing his shoulder as he walked past him to get a cup of coffee, roughly ruffling his hair as returned to his seat afterwards.

“I’m sorry, darling. Just trying to cheer up Misha. He had that dream again last night.” He stretched his arms across the table towards Misha, laughing and waggling his fingers in a parody of his nightmare. “I’m coming to get you, Misha, with my broken arms.”

Misha shrank back in his chair.

His mother got up. “You’ve got to stop being so silly, Misha. Nightmares are for babies. You’re a big boy now. I’m going back to bed for a few hours. Morgan, don’t forget we’ve got that dinner with the governor tonight.”

Once she’d left the room, his father gave him a hard, very grown-up look, and Misha understood there was some kind of implicit threat underlying his earlier behavior that demanded Misha’s silence over what he’d seen last night.  

He grew up understanding that anything was permissible as long as it remained hidden. His father tolerated his dislike and silent rebellion as long as Misha did nothing to publicly embarrass him.

 

In Jeff, Misha met a kindred spirit. Their childhoods were strikingly similar. But, unlike Misha, Jeff rebelled hard against his father’s iron will. He drank and fucked and fought his way through his late teens and early twenties, a notorious bad-boy wherever he went.

It was one of the reasons Misha loved him so completely at the start. Jeff was his opposite. He was a burning, angry fire; Misha was cool, brittle composure.

They had an intensely sexual relationship. After that first night in the park and breakfast in the diner, they went to Jeff’s apartment and barely left the bedroom for the next three days. It was like going on a drug binge, a losing of themselves in each other that made the rest of the world fade into white noise.

It wasn’t just about sex, though. They were both smart and articulate, liked debating ideas and challenging each other. But eventually their differences started to chafe. Misha’s cool rationality sharpened Jeff’s anger, and Jeff’s nihilism made Misha more aloof and sarcastic. What had started as an exciting challenge turned into a battle of wills.

The first time Jeff choked Misha during sex he did it in anger because Misha humiliated him in public. Drunk and out of control, he almost went too far.

They’d been at a party earlier that night where a passionate political debate erupted between a group of people, drawing in onlookers. And Jeff at the center of it all, amusing the onlookers and pissing off the debaters. Misha watched it for a while then stepped in and twisted his arguments into knots, made him look like a clownish bully.

Jeff was smart but Misha was smarter.

Angry sex was not unfamiliar to them, but that night it was something else. It effected a change in their understanding of themselves that had far-reaching consequences.

Misha really thought he was going to die in the moment before he lost consciousness, the moment after he came all over himself in shuddering, ecstatic gasps.

They didn’t talk about it the next day. Jeff watched him as they had breakfast, a hard assessing glint in his eye. Misha avoided his gaze, feeling that not only had something shifted between them but that a seismic shift had taken place deep inside him.

They had sex twice that day, Jeff pressing his fingers into the livid bruises on Misha’s throat, making Misha come instantly.

The second time Jeff did it a few weeks later, he was sober, controlled, held Misha down and fucked him slowly, his hands around his neck, keeping him on the edge of orgasm and the sinking darkness until Misha felt like he was having an out-of-body experience, a part of himself floating above them, another part fighting to breathe, fighting to come.

And that was how Misha fell into his own rabbit-hole and then deeper into Jeff’s control.

They started going to sex parties, met people, fucked people, experimented with pain, tried to love each other, tried to stick to the rules they learned from people who were like them, the rules that were meant to keep them safe from themselves and each other.

When Jeff broke his arm during sex, and he had to spend hellish hours in the ER by himself, Misha finally made a decision.

He moved out the next day.

Misha called Charlie, who’d retired as his parents’ gardener ten years ago, not knowing who else to call, threw his phone into the sea afterwards, and drove up to Charlie’s place further north on the coast, ignoring his doctor’s advice not to drive.

It took him a week to even start breathing normally again. His throat would suddenly close up and his heart would start racing when he was talking to Charlie or just cooking them dinner. One time it was so bad he embarrassingly had to sit down on the kitchen floor and try to calm his breathing with his head between his knees.

“It’s alright, Misha. Deep and slow,” Charlie said, crouching down next to him, a comforting, gentle hand on his shoulder.

Misha felt Jeff’s absence like a severed limb, longed for him intensely, hated himself for it.

He stayed with Charlie for a month, and in that time, he never once asked Misha what had happened to him, didn’t question him about the cast on his arm or the panic attacks, just let him heal.

Misha didn’t voice his gratitude because it would have embarrassed Charlie. When he left, he used some of his inheritance money and cleaned out his savings to buy Charlie a small fishing boat he knew he wanted, leaving the paperwork on the kitchen table with a note that simply said, ‘Thank you.’    

 

***

It was a few weeks after Misha first had dinner with Jeff. He was in his office, working, when Jensen swept in with an armful of sandwiches. Misha looked up from his laptop, tiredly pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. “Do you ever knock before you walk into a room, Jensen?”

Jensen grinned. “Why let anybody know you’re coming when you could catch them doing something they shouldn’t be doing?”

He dumped the sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper stamped with the logo of Misha’s favorite deli on his desk. Misha looked at them, raised his eyebrows and asked, “What’s this?”

“It’s your favorite sandwich.”

Misha looked through the pile. There were eight sandwiches. “Which one is my favorite?”

“I don’t know so I got them all. Take your pick. I’ll eat the rest.”

Misha smiled and randomly chose one from the pile. Jensen grabbed another, went over to the couch and stretched out in his usual pose.

Misha didn’t unwrap the sandwich, instead glanced at the screen of his laptop.

“Stop working and eat your sandwich.”

Misha sighed and closed his laptop. “You’re very bossy, Jensen.”

“I thought you liked that kind of thing,” Jensen replied in an even, serious tone.

Misha gave him a wary glance, then unwrapped the sandwich. It was pastrami on rye. His favorite.  

They ate without talking. Jensen balled up the wrapper and threw it in a neat arc into the wastepaper basket next to Misha’s desk. He leaned back and silently watched Misha, a stubborn tightness to his expression.

Misha looked back at him and waited.

“Why are you wearing long sleeves and your top button fastened in this heat? Are you hiding something, Misha? Got something on your wrists and neck you don’t want anybody to see?”

Misha gritted his teeth, shrugged.

“Are you fucking Jeff Morgan again?”

Unsurprised by his characteristic directness, Misha gave him a cool look. “Do I ask you those kinds of questions, Jensen? Have you finally managed to get yourself into Jared’s bed? Do you think it’s wise having sex with someone you’re working with?”

Jensen snorted. “Right, because what we used to do isn’t called having sex.” His voice went quieter. “I might be falling in love with him.”

Misha paused, then a smile broke out on his face, the first real one Jensen had seen in weeks. “I know. You deserve to be happy.”

Refusing to be side-tracked, Jensen said, “I thought you’d quit going to the S&M clubs.”

Misha sighed and leaned back in his office chair, steadfastly staring up at the ceiling.

“You said it wasn’t good for you, made you unhappy. Why are you doing it again? What's going on with you? Are you still seeing that expensive shrink?”

Misha faced him. “You don’t already know the answer to that? Haven’t you been reading my emails, following me, going through my trashcans?”

“You should go back to her because Christ knows you won’t talk to anybody else about what’s going on in your head.”

“I’m going to fire you, Jensen. You’re a very infuriating person to be around.”

“You’ve been threatening that for the last seven years. You can’t fire me. I don’t work _for_ you; I’m your partner. And I’m your friend. I’m pretty sure the only real friend you’ve got. And you love me. There’s that. So we’ll still be arguing like this when we’re old. When you’re bald with a pot belly and you’ve lost those shiny white teeth, I’ll still be here, infuriating the crap out of you. I’ll look good for my age, of course, but you’ll have gone to hell. Pretty boys like you never age well.”

Misha laughed, a genuine, deep sound of amusement.

Jensen got up. “Me and Jared are going to see the Yankees play on Saturday. You’re coming with us.”

“I hate baseball.”

Jensen grinned. “I know. You’re coming anyway so I can buy you a cheap beer and a hot-dog, maybe a Yankees baseball-cap to add a casual note to your expensive wardrobe. What you need is some healthy, all-American leisure time, Misha.”

He went over and scooped up the sandwiches off Misha’s desk. “And call your fucking shrink or I’m going to drag you to a support group for self-destructive sex addicts.”

Misha was still smiling when Jensen walked out of his office.

 

 


	6. Moving In

Jared woke up from a nightmare with Jensen gently shaking him. He sat up abruptly, dream-images still racing through his mind, his heart beating hard and fast as his body continued responding to not-real physical sensations.

He took a couple of deep breaths, reality starting to register, and ran a hand through his hair, felt how wet with sweat it was.  

“You okay?” Jensen’s voice was a quiet reassurance in the dark.

Jared took another deep, shuddering breath. “Yeah.” He heard the click of the switch of the bedside lamp and blinked in the sudden flood of light.

Jensen was leaning on his elbow. “Sure?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just a bad dream.” He got up and went to the bathroom, trying to keep the front of his body angled away from Jensen’s gaze.

He didn't turn the bathroom light on. Stood over the toilet with his head back, waiting. It took a few seconds for his erection to go down before he could pee.

“I’m going to make some tea,” he said when he came back into the bedroom and pulled on his jeans. He didn’t look at Jensen. “Go back to sleep. It’s really early.”

Dawn was only just starting to lighten the room.

Shivering slightly as cool air washed over his heated skin, he went through to the kitchen and made himself a cup of herbal tea, took it with him to the bay window to watch the sun rise over the city, trying to shake off the leftover feelings of the dream.

Jensen came in a few minutes later. He’d pulled on a pair of briefs. His hair was sleep-ruffled but he looked awake and reasonably alert. Jensen wasn’t a morning person. He gave Jared a small smile.

Jared smiled back and took a moment to watch him walk across the living room into the kitchen. He felt a slight ache in his chest and a tightening in his groin - his usual response to seeing Jensen half-naked padding around his apartment like he’d already moved in.

Jensen came back into the living room and sat down on the couch, blowing on a cup of coffee. He drank his coffee black, very hot, very quickly, and always blew on it like that. He looked tired. They’d gone to bed late and couldn’t have got more than five hours of sleep.

“Sorry I woke you.”

Jensen nodded, pulled his feet up onto the couch. “So do you want to talk about what got you that scared and that turned on? And now has you mournfully staring out the window?”

Jared looked at the reddening sky. He thought Jensen had missed his sexual arousal, but Jensen never missed anything. He didn’t say anything. Jensen waited him out, silently drinking his coffee.

Eventually, Jared said, “I’ll tell you if you promise you won’t apologize again.”

Jensen raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I won’t apologize again.”

“I was in a seedy motel-room getting fucked by Frankie Lange. I was high. We’d done a lot of coke. You were sitting in a chair in the corner, jerking off, watching me, and I was watching you.”

Jensen processed that for a minute, then said, “Okay.”

“Before you say it, it doesn’t mean I’m holding anything against you about that night with Frankie.”

Jensen gave him tight smile. “Okay, so it’s not dream-symbolism for you still being pissed at me for throwing you at Frankie. Then let’s get Freudian. You’re obviously not holding onto some subconscious desire to get fucked by that sleaze ball, so let’s erase him from the picture for a minute. You like watching me jerk off. The cock in your ass is incidental. I can’t be in two places at once. The coke, the sleazy motel room and Frankie is all just you subconsciously wanting to slum it. This clean and healthy lifestyle you’re so obsessed with will do that to a person. But why were you so scared?”

Jared hesitated and glanced out the window again.

“Jared?”

Reluctantly, he said, “There was another guy. They took turns.”

Jensen frowned. “Who was the other guy?”

“When I first moved to New York after I dropped out of law school, I got involved with somebody. I thought it might be something serious. He was funny, smart and charming, but he did a lot of coke. It made him weak and unreliable. He got me into a situation in a motel room with some dealers. I was collateral. He left me there and didn’t come back with the money he owed them. The other guy in my dream was the main dealer. He was a pretty scary guy.”   

Jensen was watching him carefully. “What happened when he didn’t come back?”

“I managed to talk my way out of the room. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.” Jared clenched his jaw, remembering how much quick-thinking he had to do to get himself out of that situation. “My dad taught me that skill. There wasn’t a room he couldn’t talk his way into or out of. I guess I was a quick study. He did a similar thing to me when I was a kid. Something went wrong on a deal he was involved in and I was left alone with a guy who obviously liked little boys. I got myself out of that situation too.”

Jensen put his feet back on the floor, drained what was left of his coffee, put the cup carefully back on the table, looking like he'd rather throw it against a wall, his jaw tight. “You think I’m that guy, Jared? That I’d put you in a situation you couldn’t get out of, that I’d leave you behind? That I'd be jerking off in the corner? ”

Jared laughed, surprised. “No, Jensen, that’s not it at all. I think you’re the kind of guy who’ll come back for me and publicly make a fool of himself with lines like _You complete me, Jared. Let me worship you with my body, Jared_. Just to get me out of a situation I wasn’t dealing with very well.” He laughed again, but Jensen’s expression didn’t change.

Jared cleared his throat. “It’s just—I think—The thing is, I’m not totally clear on what you want. And that makes me feel uncertain. Like, I don’t know if you would be into the idea of watching me having sex with other guys. And I feel like maybe we should get some things straight. Because I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something the past few days and I haven’t known how to do it because, well, because—” He raked a hand through his hair. “Shit, I’m not articulating this very well.”

Jensen opened his mouth to speak but Jared cut in. “Do you want move in here, Jensen?” He kept talking in a rush of words. “I think we’re really good together. But you need to know that I don’t want to share you with anybody else. I’m pretty straightforward with relationships and I’m really not into the lifestyle. And, Jensen, if something’s going on with you and Misha, I’m not okay with that. I’m not okay with you having sex with anybody but me.”

Jensen looked at him for a few seconds, then laughed loudly, before giving him an amused, affectionate look. “Jared, I moved in with you a week ago. Me turning up with a second pair of jeans and a change of underwear, sleeping here every night for a week, is me moving in. I’m not going to be bringing over my favorite coffee-mug and a pot-plant. My relationship with Misha is complicated, but we’re not having sex, not since you and me started doing this thing that we’re doing here. And I’m really okay with not sharing. I would be breaking furniture, not jerking off, if I had to watch you getting fucked by somebody else.”

Jared felt an immense sense of relief wash over him and smiled. “Okay, good.”

Jensen returned his smile. “Now that we’ve got all that straight, do you think maybe you should come over here so we can celebrate officially moving in together by christening this couch?”

Jared’s grin widened. “Did you forget already? That ship has sailed. Twice. Once while I was trying to watch a game. And another time when I was trying to cook, and you made me burn the meal I’d spent a lot of time preparing.”

Jensen leaned back and widened his legs, put his hand over his crotch. “Yeah, but that doesn’t count, Jared. We were living in sin before. Now we’re like going steady, and we’re all serious and shit. Before, this was _your_ couch, now it’s _our_ couch. It’s virgin territory.”

Jared laughed. “Does that mean you’re going to help me pay off what I still owe on that couch, start doing the dishes, and paying rent? There’s another serious side to this moving-in thing, Jensen.”

Jensen threw his head back and theatrically thunked it a few times against the headrest. “You did not just ruin the moment by talking about doing the dishes.”

Jared laughed again before going over and sinking onto Jensen’s lap. He lifted Jensen’s head and kissed him, exploring his mouth with his tongue. Jensen groaned quietly and kissed back, pulled his hips closer and rubbed his thumbs over Jared’s hipbones.

Jared pulled back and looked at him with amused affection. “It could be sexy. You could do it naked, wearing just a frilly apron.”

“You’re way too OCD about cleanliness. You’re not going to make me wear rubber gloves and scrub your floors with my naked ass on display, are you?”

“I do like the sight of your naked ass, Jensen. It has to be said.” He stroked Jensen’s cheek. “I also like the sight of your face when I wake up in the morning and across from me at the breakfast table. I even like that stupid expression you do just before you’re about to say something you think is really funny.”

Jensen gave him a haughty look. “I _am_ funny.”

Jared smiled and moved back a little. He stroked Jensen through his briefs. Jensen’s mouth opened on a silent, in-drawn breath.

“Mmm, there it is, that other expression I really like. The one you wear when I touch you like that.” He lifted up and pulled at the waistband of Jensen’s briefs. Jensen raised his hips and pulled them down to his ankles, kicked them away.

When he settled again, Jared ran the back of his hand up the length of his hardening dick, making him draw in a shuddering breath. He wrapped his hand around him and stroked him into full hardness. Jensen started breathing quickly, a flush spreading along his cheekbones. He lifted his eyes from Jared’s hand on him and met his gaze. They stared at each other intently, seeing mirrored emotion.

“Take off your jeans.” Jensen’s voice was low and rough.

Jared got up and pulled off his jeans, then lowered himself and straddled Jensen’s thighs again. He wrapped his hand around both of their erections, put his other arm around Jensen and pulled him slightly up and forward so he could get a better grip. Jensen cupped his ass and rocked his hips forward.

They started moving together, their breathing harsh in the morning quiet.  

The tension in Jensen’s body and the sounds he made as he neared orgasm sent Jared over the edge first, just before Jensen spilled over his fist.

Jared collapsed forward, his face in Jensen’s neck. He absently mouthed at his collarbone, kissed his way up and sucked the lobe of his ear. Jensen wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer. They stayed like that for a few minutes.

Jared sat up. Jensen’s eyes were closed and he was wearing another one of Jared’s favorite expression: blissed-out Jensen. He grinned and said, “Don’t think you’re not paying half for the dry cleaning if we just got come all over the couch covers.”

Jensen half-opened one eye and huffed a laugh. He sat up, pulled Jared off him, got up and left him lying on the couch, went to the bathroom and came back with a washcloth.

Kneeling next to the couch, he gently wiped Jared’s soft dick, moved it aside and cleaned his groin. Jared leaned back, his arm behind his head and watched Jensen’s careful ministrations with a smile. The washcloth was warm and wet. His spent dick gave a half-hearted twitch. Jensen leaned forward and kissed the head. He looked up and smirked, rubbed a spot on the couch and said in an affected tone, “Look, Jared. I’m cleaning. Is it turning you on?”

Jared grinned. “Shut up.”

Jensen laughed.

“It’s your turn to cook breakfast. And to do the dishes. I bought bacon and eggs, and those chocolate and raspberry muffins you like.”

Jensen licked his lips in happy anticipation. “My favorite muffins? Seriously?” He leaned forward and kissed Jared’s nipple, got up and started heading towards the kitchen. “I think I love you, Jared.”

Jared called out, “Don’t think I’m going to let you forget the first time you ever said that to me was in connection with muffins.”

Jensen stuck his head back around the wall. “ _And_ you bought me bacon? I really, definitely, totally love you, Jared.” He went back into the kitchen, whistling, and started banging pots and pans around.

Jared laughed, then got up to take a shower, not even realizing he was humming the same song Jensen was whistling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess the song at the end has to be Night Moves.  
> "One of the greatest rock writers of all time, Samuel." :D  
> 


	7. Hard Choices

“ _Cool Hand Luke_ or _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s an impossible choice.”

“But choose you must, and wisely, young padawan. For one will disappear into the vault of doom and be lost to humanity for all time.”

Jensen threw a piece of popcorn at Jared. “I hate you. And you suck at this game.”

Jared neatly caught the popcorn in his mouth. “You love me. And I’m really good at this game.” He picked up his bottle of beer and swallowed what was left of it, before adding it to the collection of bottles on the coffee table. “You, on the hand, really do suck at it. Tom Brady or Joe Montana? Britney or Lady Gaga? Australia or North Korea? Seriously, Jensen, you’re really bad at coming up with the hard choices.”

Jensen lifted another couple of beers from the six-pack on the floor next to the couch, opened them and passed one to Jared. They clinked bottles. “I still think you’re a total asshole for dumping Australia into the vault of doom.”

“What did Australia do for the world lately? Who is actually going to miss kangaroos? Saving North Korea is the obvious, more controversial choice.” Jared tucked his feet more comfortably against Jensen’s side.

They were facing each other on the couch, their legs tangled together. It was midnight on a Thursday. They’d just watched a movie, eaten a lot of popcorn and drunk a lot of beer, had started the either/or game when Jared stated definitively that Charles Xavier was an inherently more complex character than Magneto. Jensen, of course, disagreed.

Jensen absently stroked Jared’s leg and gave him a cunning look. “I’ve got a choice for you. Hand-jobs or blowjobs?”

Jared sighed. “You see, this is what’s wrong with your choices. Obviously, I’m going to choose blowjobs. As skilled as you are with your hands, Jensen, a blowjob is always going to trump a hand-job. What you should have said is kissing or blowjobs. Because that really is an impossible choice. Also, it puts me in a difficult position. If I pick blowjobs, you think it means I’m only here for the sex. If I pick kissing, you think I’m sappy or that maybe you have bad technique. Which means that the next time you’re blowing me you’ll be thinking ‘Does he think I have sloppy technique’ and I’ll be thinking ‘I really hope he doesn’t think I think he has sloppy technique just because I chose kissing over blowjobs during that stupid game.’ Also, it’s not your turn yet. You haven’t chosen between _Cool Hand Luke_ or _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_. You see, I know that you relate equally to both of those Paul Newman characters. You like to see yourself as both the rebel martyr and the smart outlaw. To choose between them is impossible for you. Although, I bet I can guess which one you’d choose if you absolutely had to. And this is why I’m so much better at this game than you are.”      

Jensen laughed. “Oh, you think you’re so smart, Padalecki.” He poked his toe into Jared’s ribs, knowing how ticklish he was. Jared grinned and elbowed his foot away.

“Anyway, blowjobs is the wrong answer. My hand on your dick frees my mouth to kiss you and lets me look you in the eye while I’m jerking you off. It’s called emotional intimacy, Jared. So, the next time I’m on my knees sucking your dick, I really am going to be thinking ‘Why doesn’t he want to kiss me? Is this only about sex for him?'"

Jared laughed. “Oh touché, Jensen.”

“And I bet you think I’d choose Butch Cassidy over Luke.”

“Of course you would.”

“Wrong answer again, Padalecki. Cool Hand Luke was my defining role model as a kid. The scene when he refuses to stay down despite that he’s getting his ass kicked by the bigger guy is what got me through high school.”

Jared smiled. “Okay, you win both those rounds. I think—” 

Before Jared could finish his sentence, Jensen’s phone started ringing. He scanned all the nearby surfaces. Not seeing it anywhere, he groped behind the couch cushions until he found it. The caller ID made him frown. Giving Jared an apologetic look, he got up and went through to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Jared sighed. Obviously, Jensen needed his privacy, but he seemed to be getting a lot of calls the last few days that required closed doors. He peeled off the label of his beer and waited, listening to the muffled sound of Jensen’s voice.

Jensen was out of the bedroom in under five minutes, boots on and shrugging into an overshirt, his expression tight.  “I’ve gotta go.”

Jared sat up straighter. “Okay. Where are you going? Do you need anything?”

Jensen gave him a distracted look. “Can we talk about it later? I’ll call you.”

“Sure,” Jared said to the empty room because Jensen was already out the door.

“Sure,” he said again to himself, aiming a kernel of popcorn at a coffee mug on the table. “And he scores,” he said when it landed inside the mug. “I’ll just be waiting here for your call, Jensen.”  

 

Jensen drove as fast as he could, sticking just to the speed limit, not wanting to get pulled over, and trying to stay careful and controlled.

 _“You need to come and get your boy, Jensen.”_ Derrick had said to him on the phone _. “He’s on something. Nothing anybody here gave him. He’s really out of it and can’t get himself home.”_

 

Jensen parked outside the back entrance of an anonymous four-story walkup in Midtown. Derrick buzzed him in and met him at the door. He was one of the managers of The Dungeon—a slim, stylish, serious looking guy in glasses who didn’t fit the S&M stereotype. Jensen had done him a favor a few years back, which Derrick repaid occasionally with information about the club’s clients.     

“Where is he?”

Derrick gestured down the hallway. “The Black Room.”

Misha was lying on his back on the bed, naked, his eyes closed. The room was awash with red light, making his skin look an unearthly white against the black rubber cover on the bed. There was all the usual S&M furniture and paraphernalia—a bondage horse, a cross, racks of floggers and masks and sex toys. Jensen went over and checked Misha’s pulse. It was thready but strong enough and his breathing was clear and regular. There were ligature marks on his neck and wrists. A pair of handcuffs were still attached to the bedpost.

“What did you do to him?” Jensen asked the burly dom dressed in leather standing near the bed, taking care to keep his tone neutral.

“What he paid me to do,” the guy said, his hands on his hips. “He didn’t get anything he didn’t beg for.”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

The dom looked over at Derrick, who nodded.

“Bondage, flogging, choking, daddy talk. He’s okay. I know what I’m doing. He’s just out of it from the ketamine he took. It’s his thing. He gets off on having no control at all. He brought that with him. I’m not a dealer. I guess he popped Viagra too, considering the size of that boner he’s still sporting.”

Jensen lifted Misha’s head and shook him gently. Misha opened his eyes and blinked a few times, his gaze unfocused. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay. Can you stand up?” Misha swallowed and tried to nod. “Where are his clothes?” Jensen asked the dom icily.  

The guy went over to a chair, picked up a pile of clothes and threw them on the bed.

Jensen picked up a shirt and maneuvered Misha to get him into it. “You can get the fuck out of here now,” he hissed as he struggled to get Misha into the shirt.

“You don’t need to get pissy with me, dude. If he was getting what he needed at home from you, he wouldn’t have to pay for it.”

Jensen looked at Derrick. “Get him out of here before I rip his goddamn head off.”

Derrick ushered the dom out of the room.

Misha started to look more aware as Jensen got him dressed, sitting up on his own and silently watching Jensen lace up his shoes. He nodded when Jensen said, “Can you walk?”

He wasn’t actually capable of walking under his own steam so Jensen half-carried him out of the back entrance of the club and into his car.

By the time they got to Misha’s apartment he was steadier on his feet, leaning slightly against Jensen for support. “He’s a lightweight. Can’t handle his beer,” Jensen said to a middle-aged couple in the elevator when they looked at Misha with concern.

In a dry, unsteady voice, Misha said, “Actually, I can’t handle my drugs.” It had the intended effect. The couple looked at them with disapproval and got out on the next floor.

Jensen helped Misha into his bedroom and onto the bed. “Are you trying to get yourself kicked out of your nice apartment building?” He got down to unlace Misha’s shoes but he pushed him away.

“I can do it.”

Jensen watched him fumble with the laces, then moved his fingers aside and did it for him.

“It’s just like old times, isn’t it?” Misha’s voice was full of bitterness.

Their eyes met. Jensen didn’t say anything. The situation was very familiar. After Misha’s father died five years ago, he went on a bender that lasted six months. Six months of this kind of self-destructive behavior, and Jensen trying to take care of him but not knowing how to reach Misha in the darkness that he’d receded into.

“You need a shower. You stink.”

Misha clenched his jaw. “Don’t think I can. I’ll get clean in the morning.” He started slowly pulling off his clothes. Jensen got up, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stripped off his own clothes and went back into the bedroom.

“C’mon, let me help you.”

Misha nodded, got up and made his way unsteadily into the bathroom. Jensen stepped into the shower behind him and held him up when he swayed. He kept a firm grip on him, reached for the soap and washed him clean, his touch as perfunctory as that of a nurse giving a patient a bed-bath.

Despite Jensen’s careful neutrality, Misha still got hard. He gripped Jensen’s wrist and pushed his hand down, rubbed it against his erection and groaned quietly.

Jensen took a deep breath. “I can’t, Misha.”

Misha forced Jensen’s hand open and wrapped it around his dick. “Please.” He started moving Jensen’s hand, his breath quickening. “I need to come. Please, Jensen.”

There was no way Jensen was ever going to say no to him, not when he sounded so breathless and vulnerable. He soaped up his hand and jerked him off, doing it fast, using everything he knew about how Misha responded to physical stimulus to get him off as quickly as he could.

Misha tried to reciprocate but Jensen moved away. Misha was so wrapped up in his own intense need that he didn’t insist. 

They toweled off afterwards and went back into the bedroom. Jensen pulled on his briefs and looked at Misha sitting on the edge of his bed, looking like a lost, vulnerable boy. Jensen went over and towel dried his hair for him, patted him on the cheek afterwards. “Get some sleep.”

Misha got into the bed, plumped the pillows and lay back, looking at Jensen. His voice was really quiet when he said, “Will you stay?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be on the couch.”

Misha gave him a careful look, then flicked back the bedcover. “It’s more comfortable here.”

“I can’t, Misha. I’ll be on the couch. Call me if you need anything.”

Jensen went into the living room and stretched out on the couch. He picked up his phone from the coffee table where he’d left it. Jared hadn’t called or messaged him. He sent him a text. ‘ _Won’t be back tonight. See you at the office in the morning.’_ He looked at it for a few minutes then decided it sounded too purposefully vague and added ‘ _Spending the night on Misha’s couch’_ to the start of the message.

The next morning Misha was cool and distant, his suit neat and crisp, no evidence of the lost, broken person of the night before. They drank coffee and shared the paper, like they had hundreds of mornings before, neither of them in the mood for conversation. Before they left the apartment, Misha said, “Thank you for last night, Jensen. I’m sorry to be a burden.”

Jensen grabbed his arm before he could turn away and made him meet his gaze. “You are never a burden to me, Misha. But you need to deal with whatever’s got you so turned around.”

“I know,” he answered and left the apartment without saying anything else.

When Jensen got to the office, Misha’s door was already closed. Jared was sitting behind his computer. He looked up when Jensen walked in. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. You ready to go?”

Jared nodded.

“Then let’s go break into the call-girl’s apartment.” The golf club client still had them working on eliminating the competition for a bid on a contract before a big corporate event at the club.

Jared smiled wryly. “I really don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this job.”

Jensen smiled back. It felt forced and too tight on his face. Jared looked at him closely, his own smile fading, glanced at Misha’s closed door and then back at Jensen.

In the car, both of them were quiet, tension stretching taught between them. Jensen knew he was behaving weirdly but didn’t know how to pretend at normality. Jared would see right through it anyway.

They pulled into an alley and put on the security service technician uniforms Jensen had in his trunk. He made the joke because he knew he had to. “Want to take these home with us afterwards and act out every bad porn movie you ever watched as a kid?”

Jared looked at him steadily, didn’t smile. “What’s going on, Jensen? What happened with Misha last night?”

Jensen zipped up his uniform. “He’s just dealing with some shit right now. Can we talk about it later? We’ve got a job to do.” He turned and walked away, heard Jared silently following him.

After lying their way into the building, Jared practiced his lock-picking skills on the door of the call-girl’s apartment and got them in faster than Jensen could have.

The apartment was expensively furnished, minimalist, filled with light, a lot of black and white arty erotic photographs on the walls. “What’s the bet this girl is an artist in the bedroom. She’d have to be if she was trying to lure this corporate asshole away from the suburban wife and perfect kids.” Jensen looked at a photograph, the play of light and dark just distinguishable as a close-up image of a cock teasing a clit. He turned and said, “Do you want to do the bedroom or the living room?”

Jared was looking at the view through the full length windows. He’d unzipped the uniform and rolled it down to his waist, was stretching his arms. They didn’t do gigantor in fake uniforms. Jensen watched the flex of muscle in his arms and the way the light touched his smooth skin.

Jared turned and gave him a serious, unsmiling look. “I’ll do any room you want me to, Jensen.”

A gulf was yawning open between them. Jensen could sense it, knew it was widening every moment he chose not to talk about what had happened with Misha last night. In Jensen's opinion, honesty really wasn’t the best policy. But the problem lay in how good Jared was at reading people. Jensen wasn’t going to get away with not telling him. And then what?

He swallowed at the challenging, sexual edge to Jared’s voice and said, “Okay, look in the living room. Anything to connect the guy to her.”

Jared didn’t look at him, went over to a bureau and started going through the contents. Jensen watched his silent, uncommunicative back for a few moments, then went into the bedroom. He searched the closet and the drawers, wondered, as he always did, about the secret life people hid behind closed doors.  

When he was done, he went into the bathroom and splashed his face with water. He stood up and saw Jared leaning in the doorway. “Find anything?”

“Yeah, I’ve got what we need. He’s paying the rent on this place. With their prenup, he’ll lose fifty per cent of everything if it comes out he’s having an affair.”

Jensen wiped his face on a towel. “Another dirty job done. Let’s get out of here.”

“She’s pregnant,” Jared said suddenly.

“Yeah, I figured that out from the baby book in the nightstand drawer, right next to the Kama Sutra. She’s smart.”

Jared gave him a steady look. “Maybe she’s really in love with him.”

Jensen snorted and tucked the towel back on the rail. “You’ve been watching too many chick-flicks, Jared. _Pretty Woman_ this ain’t.” He tried to get past him, but Jared was looming in the doorway.

“Do you think you have the right to make a judgment like that just because you went through her underwear drawer? The photographs are hers. She’s an artist.” He took a couple of steps forward into Jensen’s space. “Maybe she’s more complicated than you think.”

Jensen backed up a little, then realized what he was doing and stood his ground. “Her being complicated and artistic has got nothing to do with the job.”

Jared gave him a mock-playful smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Are you always only about the job, Jensen?” He trailed his hand down Jensen's chest and then his stomach. "Don't you think about anything else?" His gaze was hard and assessing as he reached down and stroked Jensen through his jeans.

Breath catching in his throat, Jensen said, “Did those photos out there get you all revved up? Save it for when we get home, big boy. We should get out of here.” He knew he had his usual tone pitch-perfect, also knew that Jared wasn’t fooled in the slightest.

Jared pulled him forward by his belt-loops, lowered his head to kiss the tender juncture between his shoulder and neck. “Maybe they did.” He cupped Jensen’s ass and pulled their hips together.

Shifting away, Jensen laughed and put a hand against Jared’s chest. “Easy there, tiger. This a kink for you? Because I’m not really getting behind the idea of doing it in the bathroom of somebody I just—”

Jared spun him around to face the mirror before he could finish, pulled him back, fitting Jensen tight against his body. “Sure you are.” He twisted Jensen’s face to the side and kissed his neck, then looked up and met his eyes in the mirror. “It’s an anonymous, intimate, forbidden place. Don’t tell me you’re not turned on by that.”  He started stroking Jensen through his jeans, his eyes on his face in the mirror. Jensen groaned, his body responding instantly. Jared unbuttoned his jeans and pulled out his cock.

“Jared,” Jensen tried half-heartedly, his breathing already ragged. “Christ,” he said eventually, giving up, leaning back against Jared’s shoulder and thrusting into his hand, the tight, hard pressure sending waves of pleasure through his body.

“Say you want me.”

“I do want you, all the fucking time, since I met you, just, c’mon, Jared.” He was already so close.

Jared’s hand slowed. “Look at me.” Jensen opened his eyes and looked at him in the mirror. Jared tightened his grip, said softly, “It’s called emotional intimacy, Jensen.”

The intensity of his gaze was too much. Jensen closed his eyes, concentrated on the feeling of Jared’s erection against his ass, the hot, hard grasp of his hand and then the bliss of coming. He sagged back against Jared’s body when he returned to himself, Jared’s arm wrapped around him, holding him steady.

Turning him around, Jared kissed him gently on the mouth and started unbuttoning his own jeans. “Will you suck me?”

“Yeah.” Jensen huffed a laugh. “Only if you promise not to think I have bad technique.”

Jared put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him down to his knees. “You have great technique, Jensen. It’s all that practice you’ve had.”

Shifting that into a back-room in his mind to be examined later, Jensen opened his mouth and took him in deep, his eyes closed, aware of nothing but the feeling of Jared’s hard cock in his mouth, the smell of him and the soft sounds he was making, then the taste of him coming in his throat, the hot, choking rush of fluid, swallowing, trying to breathe.

He had to rest his forehead against Jared’s thigh to pull himself together before he could stand up.

Jared kissed him hard, possessively, tongue deep in his mouth, tasting himself. Jensen let him, didn’t try to meet him half-way, just allowed him to plunder his mouth. Pulling back, Jared gave him an intense, searching look.

“We should clean up,” Jensen said quietly.

Jared nodded and stepped back.

They left the building through the back entrance. “I’ll drop you off at the office, okay. I’ve got some stuff to do.”

Jared nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

They were quiet in the car again, both of them feeling the absence of their usual affectionate, post-sex banter.


	8. In the Psychiatrist’s Chair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was pretty much the only way I could get into Misha's head. The name of the psychiatrist is a nod to the fabulous character from The Sopranos, who recommends reading Sun-Tzu's The Art of War to Tony. But she's an OC here, rather than a crossover character.

Misha sat patiently in Dr. Melfi’s waiting room considering the careful thought that had obviously gone into the décor choices. There were splashes of vibrant color in among the neutral creams and varying shades of sand-colored browns. He recognized the paintings on the walls. A well-known, contemporary New York artist. Expensive, sophisticated, beautiful pieces, designed to evoke a sense aesthetic appreciation. _There is tranquility and beauty in the world_ , _even if you’re feeling anger and despair_ , they seemed to be saying.

Misha snorted derisively, irritated by how everything was so obviously designed to calm the minds of the patients before they went in for a session.

The assistant looked over at him. “Dr. Melfi will be with you shortly, Mr. Collins. Can I get you something to drink?” Her voice and appearance were in harmony with the décor—polite and soothingly neutral.

Misha ran through a couple of comments he could make to ruffle her calm demeanor but voiced none of them. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Five minutes later he was ushered into Dr. Melfi’s office.

Jennifer Melfi was a well-respected psychiatrist, a Harvard graduate and published author of numerous psychiatric studies and textbooks, a woman in her mid-fifties, stylish, well-spoken and fiercely intelligent.

She shook Misha’s hand, her grip firm and warm. “Hello, Misha. It’s been a while since I last saw you.” She indicated one of the elegant armchairs facing each other in the center of the room.

As he sat down, Misha thought, _‘Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned. It has been twelve months since my last confession.’_

 Dr. Melfi gave him a penetrating look. “You don’t want to be here,” she stated.

“I never want to be here,” Misha replied shortly. “No offence, but my reasons for needing to be here don’t engender feelings of looking forward to an hour in your company.”

Dr. Melfi smiled. “Perhaps not, but you’re normally more open to our sessions than you appear to be right now.”

“I come to you with an open heart and readily confess my many sins. Give me your grace, Mother of Psychiatry, so I can firmly resolve to sin no more and to avoid the occasions of sin.”

Dr. Melfi laughed. “Yes, therapy as the secular confessional. Your father was a catholic, wasn’t he? And you were brought up going to church. Do you still have faith?”

Misha sighed and made himself more comfortable, his feet flat on the floor, hands resting loosely on his thighs. “My father pretended at Catholicism because it was useful in his political career.”

Dr. Melfi picked up a notepad and pen. “The unknowable man because he lied about everything. Did you find it useful going through all his things after the funeral? Did it bring you a better understanding of who he was? You haven’t ever talked about whether that experience was cathartic for you.”

“I don’t want to talk about my father. I didn’t think you traded in stock psychiatric clichés. Not everything stems from the fact that my parents never loved me.”

Ignoring his hostility, Dr. Melfi replied, “Clichés exist because they’re built on a foundation of truth. Can you be sure they never loved you? People love in many different ways because their understanding of love is individual to who they are. Perhaps they loved you in the only way they knew how. Did you love them?”

“If you’ve grown up in a dark cave seeing only shadows on a wall, you can’t recognize the light and the real world.”

Dr. Melfi smiled. “Plato’s allegory of the cave. Is that how you understand your difficulty in establishing close, intimate relationships?”

Misha shrugged. “I’m a grown man responsible for my own actions. I do still have some faith from all those Sundays on my knees. Freedom is a length of rope that God wants you to hang yourself with. My childhood isn’t an excuse for every shitty thing that I do.”

“Do you want to talk about why you’re really here then, Misha? Something normally precipitates you booking an appointment to see me. Have you done something to hurt someone else?”

Misha looked out the window at the startling clarity of the sky—a blank, blue expanse, empty of clouds. Dr. Melfi waited him out silently.

“I’m dangerous to the people I care about, to the few friends I have.”

“Can we discuss specifics. Abstraction isn’t very useful when we’re trying to unknot a problem. Is this about Jensen? You said before that you felt the sexual side of your relationship with him increased the bond between you, but that it wasn’t actually a romantic relationship in the conventional sense. Not for either of you. That it was simply a part of your particular friendship. Has something changed?”

Misha bent his leg and rested the ankle on his other knee, leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Looking at Dr. Melfi was distracting him from sorting through his own thoughts. “He’s in love. The real thing. Romance, commitment, monogamy, sharing the same bed, making love and not just having sex for its own sake. I did something to jeopardize that for him.”

“What did you do?”

“I put him in a position where his loyalty to me forced him to do something that would cause conflict with the man he loves.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“In Jensen’s language – like a complete lowlife shitbag.”

Misha lifted his head and faced her when Dr. Melfi laughed. “Yes, that’s a very honest description of guilt and remorse. Did you do it because you’re jealous of his relationship with this other man?”

Misha leaned forward and poured himself a glass of cold water and ice from the jug on the table. “No, I’m not jealous of Jared. I don’t feel possessive of Jensen in that way. Their relationship takes nothing away from my friendship with him.”

“So why did you do it?”

Misha took a sip of water, then placed the glass back on the table. “Because I was being selfish. I wanted to experience sexual release and Jensen was there. I needed his affection and loyalty. Having sex reminds me that I’m human.”

“People have sex for many complicated reasons. For the purpose of sexual pleasure and release, and as an expression of love for another person are only two reasons on a very long list. Why did you need to feel human? What made you feel less than that?”

Misha dryly replied, “I’ve been frequenting establishments which cater to baser sexual needs.”

 “The S&M clubs again?”

“Yes, the S&M clubs again.”

Dr Melfi tapped her pen against her notepad and looked thoughtful. “You said before that going to those clubs came from a different kind of need to the need that was fulfilled by your participation in the Red Cloak Masquerade events where people also indulge in sadomasochistic behaviors. How is the need different? Why do the masquerades not make you feel as negative about your sexual behavior?”

Misha huffed a laugh. “Are you going to write a paper on me for psychiatric research into sexual deviancy, Jennifer?”

Dr. Melfi returned his smile. “Everything you say to me, Misha, as you know, is private and confidential. My sole purpose in these sessions is to guide and support you in understanding yourself and to help make you well. Do you trust me to help you do that? Trust is a fundamental part of therapy.”

Misha drained the glass of water. He nodded in answer to her question, then dropped his head back to look up at the ceiling. “The masquerades are about playing a role. It’s not me doing those things. In the clubs, it’s just me and my own groveling need.”

“Particularly the need for erotic asphyxiation?”

Misha hesitated before answering. “Yes, especially choking. The bondage and submission give me pleasure, but I’m really there for the choking.”

“You’re not alone in that desire and it certainly isn’t an uncommon sexual practice. Hypoxia as a result of the sudden loss of oxygen to the brain intensifies the experience of orgasm. But it can be dangerous.”

Misha laughed dryly. “You make it sound so clinical. It’s not just having an orgasm, it’s like a loss of self at the moment of orgasm. It’s like annihilation.”

“Do you have to feel guilty for wanting that? Can you not reconcile yourself to those sexual desires and practice them safely?”

Misha lifted his head and gave her a direct look. “I’m going to end up dead in a room somewhere if I reconcile myself to those desires.”

Dr. Melfi put down the pen and notepad. “Okay, then let’s work on understanding it. You managed to clean yourself up after the dark time you went through following your father’s death. What helped you then?”

“This did,” Misha said, gesturing between them. “And your suggestion that I stop turning my back on what happened to me as a kid. You were right. It _was_ cathartic going through my dad’s things after he died. I hadn’t seen him for years. My mom asked me to go and visit him in the hospital but I refused. You told me I should practice compassion. That I should show compassion for the weak part of myself that was continually letting me down, and I should show compassion for him. I did that when I felt like I understood something about him. He still represents everything I despise but I felt pity for him, something I never thought I ever could feel. I accepted I could love and hate him equally. Like you suggested, I also talked to my mom about his cruelty to me when I was a kid.”

“How did she respond?”

Misha laughed sardonically. “Badly. She accepted he was a hard man and admitted both of them brought out a kind of viciousness in each other that made their marriage a battleground. But she refused to believe some of the stories I told her, said I was making them up and suggested my psychiatrist was helping me construct fake repressed memories.”

Dr. Melfi sighed deeply. She uncrossed her legs and poured herself a glass of water from the jug on the table. “That must have been difficult.”

Misha laughed again, no humor in the sound. “It took me a while to build up the reserves to show her any compassion. But I did it. I don’t forgive either of them but I understand they acted out of weakness, things that weren’t really choices for them. She was a slave to his political career and the fiction they’d constructed about their own lives.”

Dr. Melfi leaned forward, her hands on her knees and looked at him closely. “So why are you doing this to yourself again? Why are you slipping back into this type of behavior that you recognize as self-sabotage—hurting people you love and indulging in sexual practices you know will end up killing you? I assume you’re also taking drugs again to heighten your sexual experiences, right?”

Misha sighed. “I’m tired. My hour’s up and I’m sure you’ve got another patient waiting. I’ll make another appointment.”

Dr. Melfi pinned him with a sharp glance. “The hour is not up and I don’t have another appointment for the rest of the afternoon. Misha, it takes you most of a session to even start opening up. We’re doing good work here. Please don’t leave.”

Misha laughed. “So you reserved your entire afternoon for one of your most intractable patients?”

Dr. Melfi’s expression didn’t change. “What pulled you back into it?” she insisted.

It was the memory of Jensen’s expression when he said, ‘ _You are never a burden to me but you need to deal with whatever’s got you so turned around’,_ that kept Misha where he was. He sighed and went back to staring at the ceiling. There was a cobweb in one of the light fittings that was out of place in this otherwise pristinely clean room. He shrugged and said, “I don’t really know.”

“That’s a lie, Misha.” Dr. Melfi’s voice was firm. “You can choose not to answer questions but you cannot lie when you’re here. You’re a highly perceptive person. You have the makings of a very good psychiatrist yourself because you understand people, which is why they’re so drawn to you. And you understand yourself and your own motivations better than most people I’ve met, here or outside in the real world.”

Misha looked at her and then gave her his most charming smile. “If you weren’t my psychiatrist, I’d be tempted to ask you out for a drink.”

She smiled back. “If you weren’t my patient, I might be tempted to take you up on it. Can we talk about what triggered your need to go back to the S&M clubs?”  

Misha didn’t look away, kept his eyes on her as he said, “The first time I discovered I really liked being choked during sex was with a man called Jeff. I drove him to it when I humiliated him in public. I did it knowingly. I wanted to hurt him so he would hurt me. We were already slipping into that cycle of behavior. I loved him but being with him drove me to a kind of cruelty I didn’t even know was in me. One time, for his birthday, I took him to a restaurant I knew he would hate just to see what he would do.”

“What did he do?”

“He ordered the most expensive choices on the menu and then sent everything back multiple times because it wasn’t perfect. We sat there for hours. The chef eventually came out, looking like he was about to have a nervous breakdown, and Jeff explained to him in minute detail why the dish wasn’t exactly perfect, and he was right, so the only thing the chef could do was to go back to the kitchen and try again. Jeff’s really intelligent and manipulative like that. It was aimed at me, of course. It became like a game of chess between us—which one of us could outmaneuver the other. And before you say it, yes, I know, I learned to play that game by watching my parents do it.”

Dr. Melfi smiled. “Like I said, you’re a natural psychiatrist. How did the relationship end?”

“I left him when he accidentally broke my arm during sex. He was so wracked with guilt he couldn’t even go with me to the ER. We would have eventually destroyed each other. I think I left because I was more scared of what I would do to him rather than out of self-preservation. I’m a masochist. Pain arouses me. He’s a dominant, submission arouses him, but he was terrified of turning into his own father, who he hated more than I hated mine. I knew that. I loved him for his fierce, rebellious nature, but I enjoyed the pain it gave me to watch him turn into what he hated. I’m not a good person.”

Dr. Melfi looked at him for a few silent moments. “Do you manipulate Jensen? Is that what you were doing when you had sex with him, knowing it might destroy the love he’s found with Jared?”

Misha startled. “No, of course not! Jensen isn’t Jeff. He’s one of the most straightforward, simplest people I’ve ever met, and I don’t mean that as an insult. His simplicity is what I admire most about him. I don’t want to hurt him.”

Dr. Melfi’s professional mask lifted for a second and Misha recognized her expression as one of profound pity. “Which is of course why you’re here, Misha. You care about him and you won’t do that to him again because you don’t want to feel like a lowlife shitbag. The fact that you’re capable of those feelings shows you’re capable of being a good person. You’re no longer in the cave seeing real feelings and relationships as shadows on the wall. You’ve pulled yourself out of negative cycles of behavior at least twice in your life. Once with Jeff, and then again after what your father’s death did to you. That takes strength and courage. I teach practicing compassion as a tool to help people heal themselves because I know how transformative it can be. It’s a life rope for patients who have been abused and cannot get themselves out of a hole of self-destruction. But it’s also one of the most difficult things to actually do. And you’re right, it’s not the same thing as forgiveness. It’s the step that needs be taken before real forgiveness. I understand that completely. Is Jeff back in your life again? Is that what triggered this recent behavior?”

Misha looked at her and for the first time thought of her as real person behind the cool, collected, rational persona she projected. He knew there was something else, something personal hiding behind her words. “You of all people are capable of practicing compassion. If—”

She cut him off. “If you try and psychoanalyze me, Misha, I’m going to charge you double for this session. I told you before, do not try and turn this around on me. It might work on the people you deal with every day but in here I make the rules.”

Misha put his hands up in defeat. “Okay, I hear you.” He glanced at the water jug. “Can I have some coffee?”

She nodded and went over to the phone to speak to her assistant. They waited in silence until she’d brought the coffee in and left it on the table. Dr. Melfi poured both of them a cup. Misha refused cream and sugar and watched her take both. She had a sweet tooth.

“Are you planning on sleeping with Jeff? Are the sex clubs a way of delaying it from happening?”

Misha took a couple of deep breaths. He already felt like he’d run a marathon. He was in a strange, focused headspace, no longer even wanting to reach the finish-line, like he could just keep running forever.

“He’s back in New York after working abroad. I hadn’t seen him for years. I thought after all this time that I’d become a different person, but as soon as we met up again, it was just like before. He asked me about the S&M scene, came to my office, made it seem like some kind of professional favor. I’m in the business of providing favors and connecting people. I fix things that people need fixing.”

Dr. Melfi gave him a raised-eyebrow look. “I see.”

“I got him an invite to a masquerade and watched him dominate somebody. There was a small crowd of onlookers and I was at the back, wearing a mask, but he knew I was there. I hadn’t felt that kind of arousal in years. He’s cruel and violent, but makes it look like love. He talks all the time during it, and if you hear his voice, you’ll know what I mean, it’s like black velvet wrapping around your naked body. Then I introduced him to the owner of an exclusive S&M club, which is an invitation-only kind of place. You have to know somebody to get invited. It’s my business to know a lot of people.”

Dr. Melfi nodded but didn’t ask a question.

“There’s a pair of male doms there that work together. They’re brothers. They’re very skilled. I let Jeff watch. He sat in the corner of the room and masturbated as they fucked and flogged and choked me. Am I shocking you?”

Dr. Melfi gave him a wry look. “I am un-shockable, Misha. You’re using that kind of language and those descriptions without actually saying anything. Don’t use it as a cover.”

Misha sighed. “It was a power-play, a counter-move to what happened at the masquerade. A kind of proxy warfare, if you like. In both cases, we were really fucking each other.”

Dr. Melfi nodded. She picked up the notepad and flicked through it, found what she was looking for and then looked at Misha. He waited. She looked down and said, “There’s a quote from Sun Tzu’s _Art of War_. You might be familiar with it. It goes: _If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle._ ” She looked up again.

Misha smiled. “So the problem is I don’t know myself or Jeff so I will succumb in every battle with him, or I know myself but not Jeff and so I lost that particular battle?”

She shook her head. “No, Misha. You know yourself and you know him. You’re the same type of people on a very fundamental level, kindred spirits because of your inherent natures and similar childhood experiences, which is why you loved each other so intensely. But it’s like a folie à deux, a shared delusional belief. Because the truth is that both of you are just shadow-boxing. He’s not your enemy. You were alone in that room. There were no doms, no Jeff masturbating in the corner. To be crude, you were fucking yourself.”

Misha laughed, a genuine sound of delighted amusement, then he stopped and stared out the window. The sky was reddening. Sunset had arrived without him even realizing. He felt as if he’d been in this room for less than an hour or for days on end, like he should have been marking time, checking-in to the concept of time passing by looking at a clock or scratching lines into the wood of the table in front of him.

“Okay,” he eventually said, looking back at her. “I understand. Know thy enemy. It is thyself.”

She smiled. “Yes. The process of self-realization frequently leads from that conclusion. We have little control over the behavior of others or what is done to us, but we have control over our own responses and reactions to those things. You were right: you will destroy each other. Breaking your arm was just a precursor to more violence, which will only escalate. You managed to free yourself from this toxic, abusive relationship before. You can do it again. Make a choice, Misha, and don’t end up dead in a room somewhere.”  

They got up. Misha reached across the table and shook her hand. “If I don’t need another appointment, can I call you for that drink?”

She laughed. “No, Misha, you can’t. Honestly, I think you’re probably a frighteningly perceptive person to know, and I’m not having you delve into my psyche to figure out how I tick.”

Misha smiled. “That’s very hypocritical after what you just put me through.”

“That’s what you pay me for, Misha. It’s the work. I think you probably apply the same kind of thinking to your own job of fixing things.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I fix problems. You fix people.”

“No, that’s not what I do. Have you read _East of Eden?”_ she asked, nothing of the psychiatrist in the way she asked the question.

“The Steinbeck novel? No, I haven’t.”

“There’s a biblical concept in it. It’s called timshel. It’s the word that God says to Cain when exiling him to the lands east of Eden. In the King James translation it’s a word that makes a promise ‘thou shalt’ meaning that men will definitively triumph over sin. But a character in the novel argues that the Hebrew word actually means ‘thou mayest’. It gives a choice. He says that it might be the most important word in the world because it says the way is open.”

Misha smiled. “So you’re saying freedom of choice is not a length of rope that God wants you to hang yourself with?”

“Yes, Misha, that’s what I’m saying.”

“I understand.”

Misha left her office, feeling like he’d been inside a washer and dryer for hours. His body hurt and there was a raw place deep inside him that felt like it had been excised. He was in pain but he felt strangely light, like a burden had been lifted from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Freedom is a length of rope. God wants you to hang yourself with it.” (Castiel)


	9. Parks & Recreation

Mark Sheppard was a tax lawyer with a reputation for ruthless deal-making and creative accounting that remained just within the limits of the law, the kind of guy who would sell his own mother if he thought there was any profit to be made from it. His clients included big business firms, movie stars and mob bosses. Three years ago, Jensen helped him get out of a sticky situation which put him in Jensen’s pocket. They had a fractious alliance from which they’d both benefitted on a number of occasions.

“Mr. Sheppard is out for lunch,” a very stressed-looking, young assistant said to Jensen as he strode into the offices of Sheppard & Partners.

“Then I’ll just wait for him in his office,” Jensen replied and kept on walking, pushing through the next door into the inner office.

Mark was sitting behind his enormous, ornately-carved, mahogany desk, a white napkin tucked into his shirt, a spoon of soup on its way to his mouth. He paused, mouth still open, looked at Jensen, eyes narrowing, sighed, and dropped the spoon back into the bowl in front of him. Glaring at the assistant, he growled, “What _exactly_ is it that you do around here? What do you not understand about the instruction that I’m not to be disturbed?”

“I-I’m so sorry, Mr. Sheppard. I couldn’t stop him. He just barged right past me.”

Mark tugged the napkin free and threw it to the side. Jensen sat in the chair opposite him, leaned back and casually put his feet up on the desk. The assistant looked nervously between them. “Just go away,” Mark bellowed at him. He scuttled out of the room.

“I don’t know why you have a new assistant every time I come over here, Mark. You’re obviously a great guy to work for.” Jensen dropped his feet to the floor. He picked up a triangular cluster of perfectly-ripe black grapes on a gilt-rimmed side plate next to the bowl of soup, plucked a grape off the stem, threw it in the air and neatly caught it in his mouth.   

“They keep sending me these incompetents. Is efficiency too much to ask for?” Mark moved the bowl of soup away from him. “Why the hell are you interrupting my lunch, Jensen? I told you I’d contact you if I had any new information.”

There was a glass of red wine on the desk. Jensen picked it up, took a big swallow and swilled it around his mouth.

“That’s a fourteen-year-old Château Clos l'Eglise at a perfect drinking age, please don’t gargle with it as if you were brushing your damn teeth.”

Jensen pursed his lips. “Mmm, I’m getting the flavor of mulberry, notes of pepper and undertones of stalling.”

Mark sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What you don’t understand, Jensen, is that an unofficial financial investigation into somebody as high-profile as Jeffrey Morgan is a delicate affair. One that requires a subtle touch. I’m not stalling. If I had something on him, I would’ve told you.”   

Jensen drained the glass of wine and walked around behind the desk, trailing his hand along the spines of the books on the shelf. “Is efficiency too much to ask for, Mark? You’ve been looking into him for three weeks already. You told me he was dirty, that you could get something on him.”

“He is dirty. He’s up to his eyeballs in dirty business deals across three continents. Getting something concrete on him is another thing.”

Jensen put his hands on the back of Mark’s ostentatious throne of a leather chair and whispered in his ear, “Are you holding out on me, Mark? I’m finding it difficult to swallow that you can’t sniff out a dirty deal and get me what I need on this guy.”

“I’d simply like to suggest that we tread carefully with this, because, by all accounts, Jeffrey Morgan is not a man to be trifled with. And you need to be doubly careful if you don’t have daddy’s backing. Why are you keeping Misha in the dark over this little side project of yours anyway?” He looked at Jensen over his shoulder. “Is there trouble in paradise? Are you up to no good, Jenny boy?”  

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Aah, trouble and no-good it is.”

Jensen sat in the chair opposite him again, leaned forward and gave him a hard look. “Do you want that precious son of yours to keep his place at that nice private school? Your boy with the coke and exam-cheating habit?”

Mark threw his hands in the air. “Is everything about blackmail with you people? Can’t you just ask for a favor? How many years have we been working together? Is there no bond of trust between us after all this time?” His expression became more devious. “Don’t you know, Jensen, that I’m your man in causing no-good trouble. Are you outgrowing the Misha Collins stable? Your golden-boy boss has some enemies that would be very happy to see him take a tumble.”

Jensen’s gaze didn’t waver. “Give me everything you’ve got on Jeffrey Morgan or I’ll throw your kid to the wolves.”   

Mark pursed his lips, eventually smiled mockingly. “Do you know what I like about you, Jensen? You’re so reliably predictable. You’re smart but not smart enough. You’re tough but not tough enough. You’re sentimental.”

“Give me the fucking file.”

Mark opened his desk drawer, took out a file and threw it on the desk. “Morgan’s protected by some powerful people. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And keep me out of it.”

Jensen got up and picked up the file. “It’s been a pleasure, as always.”

“Don’t call me. I’ll call you,” Mark said to him as he left.

 

***

Later that night, Jensen arrived at Jared’s apartment and hesitated outside the door, fiddling with his key. For a moment, he actually considered leaving and spending the night at his own place, sending Jared some lame text message that would get him out of dealing with this right now.

“In my experience, it’s better to just face the music and get it over and done with.” Jensen looked up at Mrs. Ziegler as she walked past him and opened the door to her own apartment. She gave him a sympathetic look. “It will work out.”

“How do you know that?”

She smiled. “I’ve got an intuition about these kinds of things.” She went into her apartment and closed her door.

Jensen sighed and unlocked the door to Jared’s apartment. He was standing in the kitchen drinking a glass of water, wearing a pair of running shorts and a ragged t-shirt, sweaty and flushed, like he’d been working out.

Jensen went over and stood on the other side of the breakfast counter, facing him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jared replied, putting the glass of water on the counter. “Did you get done whatever it was you needed to get done?”

“Yeah.”

Jared wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jensen put his keys on the counter. “Not really.”

Jared’s lips twisted in a cynical expression. “Right.” He turned and washed his hands at the sink, went over and opened the fridge. “Have you eaten?” He piled ingredients for a salad on the counter, got a chopping board and a knife, started chopping tomatoes and a cucumber, pulled apart the leaves of a lettuce. Jensen watched him silently. Eventually, Jared stopped what he was doing and put the knife carefully next to the board, looked up. “So are we doing this?”

“Yeah, I guess we are. Can you move that knife a little further away.”

Jared gave him a hard smile. “So, it’s that kind of conversation?”

“I guess it is.”

Jensen didn’t know how to start but then Jared did it for him. “Did you have sex with Misha last night?”

Jensen met his gaze. “Define having sex.”

Raising his eyebrows, Jared gritted out, “It needs defining?”

“Yeah, in some cases it does.”

“Okay, let’s get specific. Did you put your dick in his ass?”

“No.”

“Did he put his dick in your ass?”

“No. Jared—"  

“Did you suck him?”

“Jared—”

Jared was unrelenting. “Answer the question, Jensen.”

“No.”

“Did you kiss him?

“No, Jared, I didn’t kiss him. For Chrissake, let’s not—"

Jared gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. “So you jerked him off?”

Jensen remained silent. Jared looked like he was about to break the edge off the counter, his hands clenched tight and knuckles white with strain. “Did he touch you too. Did you come?”

“No.”

“Did you really sleep on his couch?”

“Yeah, I really slept on the couch.” Jensen reached across the counter, but Jared pulled back. The expression on his face made Jensen’s chest ache.

“Why did you do it?”

Jensen ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know how to start answering that question.”

“Try,” Jared said in a hard tone.

“I was—I don’t even know what the word is. I wanted to—I was comforting him.”

Jared raised his eyebrows. “You were comforting him? By jerking him off?”

“I know that sounds fucked-up, but that’s what it was.”

Jared suddenly swatted his glass of water off the counter. It hit the opposite wall and shattered loudly.

Jensen flinched.

Jared took a deep, shuddering breath.

Jensen walked around the counter and stood in front of him. “Look, I know what you were doing the other night. You were setting the boundaries. No sharing. No fucking other people. And I want that too. I just got all turned around last night and wasn’t thinking about what I was doing. I had to carry him out of a S&M club, completely out of it on drugs. I’ve seen him let people do such violent things to him. He gets this look, the worse it gets, the more blissed out he looks, like he’s going somewhere really weird in his head. He’s normally got it under control. He’s such a fucking control freak. But sometimes he doesn’t. I watched him implode five years ago. I’m just so scared that I’m going to get that call and I’ll be too late and I’ll find him dead in a room somewhere.”

Jared was frowning, his eyes scanning Jensen’s face.

“I know it’s not an excuse. I should’ve dealt with it better. But I didn’t and I’m sorry. And it won’t happen again, Jared, it really won’t. I don’t want to jeopardize this, not even for Misha. It’s just, it’s been only me and him for a long time. He’s like family to me. Which sounds really weird and fucked-up and incestuous, I know. But sex for Misha, when it isn’t about a near-death experience, is like having a nice lunch for normal people or hugging or taking a dump. It’s simple and physical. And I know it’s not like that for you.” He clasped Jared’s forearm, grip firm, holding on. “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. It won’t happen again.”

Jared looked at him for a few silent moments, then reached up with his other hand and stroked Jensen’s cheek. “You can’t save him.”

“I can sure as hell try.”

Jared unpeeled his fingers from around his arm. “I think you should go back to your own apartment tonight.”

A hollow pit formed in Jensen’s stomach. “Jared, I’m sorry. I—"     

Jared put a finger on his lips. “I know, but I need some time.” He lowered his hand and gave Jensen an unhappy look before he went over and started cleaning up the glass on the floor.

Jensen watched him for a few moments, then picked up his keys off the counter and left.

 

***

Jared couldn’t sleep that night. At two in the morning he eventually gave up on trying and got up, made himself a cup of herbal tea and tried meditating. It worked, as it always did, but only while he was doing it. Afterwards, he sat in the bay window and watched the city outside, feeling achingly lonely. It was surprising how quickly he’d got used to having Jensen around. The apartment felt empty and silent without him in it. Images of him with Misha—naked, touching each other, their hands intimate and familiar on each other’s bodies—kept intruding into his thinking. It was driving him crazy but he couldn’t stop.     

What was he going to do now? He didn’t know the answer to that question.

Betrayal was something he was familiar with. Surely, it should get easier to deal with. But it didn’t. Caring for somebody was an investment of trust, a belief, or at least a hope, that they would treat you better, or at least more carefully, than they did other people. It was stupid of him to have fallen so heavily for Jensen, to make himself so vulnerable again. He’d forgotten to be careful and had been glamoured by Jensen’s easy charm and his open, simple emotionalism.   

They were good together. Jared knew that. They were in-synch with each other, similar in all the ways that mattered, and different enough to keep that electric spark running between them. He’d felt it from the moment they’d first met.

Misha had introduced them at the office. Jensen had looked him over slowly, and then grinned, challenge and flirtation in equal measure, his handshake too hard. Jared had felt himself responding instantly. He’d wanted him so badly right from that moment.

His bed felt empty without Jensen in it.

How could he compete with the hold Misha had over him? Misha, who was aloof and attractive, who seemed to promise you something that he never quite gave, kept you waiting for it. He had an invisible orbit around him. Jared had watched people interacting with him, fascinated by the way they were drawn to him and the way he seemed mostly indifferent to them. Only with Jensen did he seem to soften. Probably because Jensen just ignored his boundaries.

He’d noticed an unguarded expression on Misha’s face the other day when he was looking at Jensen. It was amused irritation. Jared recognized it because he knew he wore that same expression when he looked at Jensen. It came from the desire to punch him in the arm (or sometimes in the face) because he was being so purposefully aggravating, and the simultaneous desire to kiss him. It was what love looked like.   

He could never compete with what they had.   

He was so tired. He went over to the couch, lay down and promptly fell asleep, his brain overloaded.

 

He woke up late the next morning, got up, showered, went to work, trying to focus on just getting through his normal routine. The office was thankfully empty, no sign of Jensen or Misha. He put on his headphones to listen to music and started trawling through hours of video surveillance. In front of him were the photographs of the three men he was looking to timestamp going into a woman’s apartment. He was amused by how the people coming in and out of the lobby of the apartment building seemed to somehow walk in time to the rhythm of the song he was listening to.    

He was lost in it when he suddenly became aware of somebody standing next to him. He pulled off his headphones. It was Misha. Jared looked up at him. “Did you want something? I’m not done going through the surveillance tapes.”

“Can I buy you lunch?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Misha.”

Misha gave him a cool, considering look. “Come with me. Let me buy you lunch. Listen to what I’ve got to say. And if you want to hit me, you can do that too.”

Jared stared at the grainy images on his computer screen for a couple of seconds, thinking, then shut down his computer and put his headphones in his desk drawer.

They didn’t talk in the elevator or in the car. Misha was really good at silence. He made awkwardness and small talk seem redundant.

They went to Central Park and Misha bought them hot dogs from a vendor. It felt slightly ridiculous deciding on ketchup, mustard and/or onions. “Is this what you normally do for lunch? Hotdogs with the tourists?”

They found a bench and sat down. Misha looked around. “Parks are solely designed to make people happy.”

“Except at night when they’re good places for drug-dealing, mugging and rape.”

Misha smiled wryly. “Yes, people ruin beautiful things.”      

They ate in silence. It was a perfect day, warm without being too hot, the light honey-colored, the greens crisp and bright, the park not overly crowded.

Misha finished his hot dog and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He turned slightly to face Jared. “Jensen is everything you think he is. He’s honest, generous and noble. He will do anything to protect the people he loves. What we do is dirty work, but he’ll never hurt an innocent. Often, he’s my moral compass when I would be more ruthless. He’s the kind of person you could put in the dirtiest situation and he’d stay clean because he’s unwaveringly true to himself.”

Jared rested his arm on the back of the bench and met Misha’s gaze. “You don’t need to explain Jensen to me. I understand him. You’re the problem and the unknown factor. He cares about you and you used that against him. I can’t compete with your history together or the hold you have over him.”

Misha’s expression twisted. “I know. You’re right. I did use his loyalty for my own selfish purposes. I felt like everything around me was spiraling out of control and Jensen makes me feel safe. He’s so solid and steady. I’m sorry, Jared. The only thing I can do is promise you it won’t happen again. And you don’t need to compete with me. It’s not a competition. I don’t love Jensen in the way that you do. It’s never been like that between us. He’s in love with you and you make each other happy. I’ll never get in the way of that again.”

“Is Jeffrey Morgan the reason you're feeling like everything around you is spiraling out of control?”

Misha’s expression shut down. He shifted and faced ahead of him, his voice cool when he answered, “I’m dealing with it.”

“I know what that’s like.”

Misha glanced at him.

“I was in love with a guy when I first moved to New York. He loved me too, but he kept hurting me. Both of us knew we should end it, but we couldn’t because we were blinded by our feelings for each other. It took something really big to finally finish it. He put me in a dangerous situation that I only just managed to get myself out of. I should’ve recognized the kind of person he was. My dad was exactly that kind of man. He destroyed my mother. The difficult thing was, he always loved us, hated himself for hurting us, but couldn’t change what he was.”

Misha’s eyes searched his face. “You don’t need to worry that you’re unconsciously repeating bad patterns of behavior. Jensen is not that kind of man.”

“Yes, I know he isn’t.” Jared watched a young couple with a child and a dog walk past them. “It took a lot of work—therapy, anti-depressants, painful self-examination—for me to understand what I was doing to myself. There’s a guy downtown who teaches meditation and other eastern disciplines like Tai Chi and Qigong to help you get in touch with yourself. It’s not as bullshit, New Age esoteric as it might sound.” He looked at Misha. “You should come with me. I’ll introduce you to him.”

Misha smiled. “What would Jensen say.”

Jared grinned. “Yeah, I don’t think we should use the word meditation around Jensen.”

“He’ll think we’re having an affair if we sneak off together.”

Jared laughed. “No, he won’t, but it will drive him crazy anyway.”

“Which means he’ll probably end up following us like some hard-boiled private detective in a fedora and trench coat.”

“Yeah, he does like to see himself as a Humphrey Bogart character.”

They laughed together, then Misha’s expression sobered. “I am sorry, Jared.”

Jared looked at him seriously. “Okay. But if you come between us again, I’ll make him choose, and he’ll choose me over you, and then you’ll lose him for good. He won’t be a part of your life.”

Misha nodded. “I hear you. I understand.”

Jared leaned forward and kissed Misha on the mouth, a hard, dominating kiss, without eroticism, like he was sealing a bargain and showing Misha who had the upper hand, more powerful and meaningful than a handshake.

Misha adjusted himself when Jared pulled away and smiled ruefully. “Sorry. Dominance gets me hard.”

Jared nodded understandingly. “Come with me to the center, Misha, let me introduce you to Sensei Lee. Practicing self-discipline will help you.”

“Okay,” Misha agreed.

They got up and walked through the park, neither of them thinking too deeply, just content to feel the warm sun on their skins and to listen to the sounds of people happily enjoying the park.


	10. Rectifying Mistakes & Making Decisions

Jensen really hated wearing a tuxedo, would never get used to it. He loosened his collar slightly and scanned the banqueting hall of the Sebonack Golf Club, one of the priciest private clubs in the country, with a wait list a mile long and membership rumored to start at a million dollars.

The client was seated at a table, courting the favor of the billionaire tycoon whose business he wanted so desperately, and keeping Misha at his side, like a magic talisman. Misha looked bored and wasn’t hiding it. The job only ever interested him as far as the behind-the-scenes machinations went. After that, the clients were normally on their own.

“Stop tugging your collar like that, Jensen. A tuxedo looks really good on you.”

It was Jeff Morgan.

Jensen gave him a hard look. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Jeff grinned, took a swallow from his flute of champagne and looked around the room. “I have a stake in tonight’s business.” His eyes stayed on the table where Misha was sitting. “Are you a betting man?” Before Jensen could answer, he continued, “I’m here to lay a bet against the horse Misha has in the race. That pompous loud-mouth next to him. But honestly, between you and me, I don’t really care who finally gets the contract. I’m just trying to get Misha’s attention because he hasn’t been taking my calls the last couple of days.”

He turned and looked at Jensen. “Do you think it will work? Will he take notice of me if I manage to swoop in and disrupt all his carefully laid plans in the final hour?”

Jensen gritted his teeth. “Stay the fuck away from him.”

Jeff smiled, a slow stretching of his lips into a wolfish grin, his eyes glittering with amusement. “I got your blackmail package yesterday, by the way. Excellent work. I don’t know who you got to do the investigation, but it’s very thorough. I’ve received a lot of similar kinds of packages in the past, none of them as well put together. I don’t suppose you want to tell me who you got to do the work, do you?” He smiled at Jensen’s stony expression. “No? Well, it was worth a try.”

His eyes ran over Jensen’s body. “You really are looking very good tonight. You’re not my type. Too macho. But I have been known to be more flexible. Alone in the jungle with a bunch of mercenaries, a man will take what he can get.”

Jeff was nothing like the other corporate types in the room. Years of hands-on, shady business dealings in South America and Africa had hardened him. The fashionable, black-rimmed glasses, neatly trimmed beard and very expensive tuxedo that clung to his lean body did nothing to hide the untamed, predatory threat beneath. Mark’s investigation into him had uncovered evidence of all kinds of ruthless tactics, from extortion to rumors of murder. He was a dangerous man, but one that seemed slightly out of place in the more sophisticated corporate jungle of New York.

“You’re on home soil now, Jeff. I’ll use what I’ve got against you. You think you’re untouchable but you’re not. Business doesn’t work like that here. You’ve been away for too long. You’re a big shark, grounded on the beach, snapping your jaws at something that’s out of your reach.”     

Jeff laughed. “I can see what he likes about you. Seriously, I’m actually getting hard.” He looked over at Misha’s table again. Jensen followed his gaze. Misha was looking back at them, wearing a worried expression. He tried to stand up but the client grabbed his arm and forced his attention on another man at the table.

“You don’t understand him,” Jeff said quietly. “How could you. You’re a simple man.”

“Neither do you.”

Jeff faced him and stepped closer. “Stay out of my way, Jensen. I know mercenary men who will eat you for breakfast. You and everybody you care about.”

Jensen stood his ground. “That might be true, but I will put a bullet in your head first if you try and come for me or anybody I care about.”

Jeff smiled. “You know, under different circumstances, I think we could’ve liked each other.”

“I doubt it.”

“Misha and I have something you’ll never understand. Stay out of it,” Jeff said in a low, threatening growl and walked away.

Jensen inconspicuously took a couple of deep breaths, trying to settle the wild pace of his heartbeat. He clenched his fists hard as he watched Jeff’s retreating back.

Misha eventually managed to extricate himself from the conversation he’d been forced into. “What is he doing here?” he asked, tensely looking for Jeff in the crowd.  

“He’s fucking with the deal.” Jensen had noticed how Jeff’s eyes hesitated on one particular guy in the room. “I think he’s got something going on with him.” Misha turned and looked at the man Jensen was pointing out. He was heading towards the seat Misha had just vacated.

“You need to get back in there,” Jensen said. “Do you know who he is?”

Misha nodded. “Call Jared. Ask him to get the file on the Californian company who put in the last minute bid. Do it fast. Get him to call me.” He walked quickly back to the table, just managing to slip back into his seat before the other guy got there, his expression full of fake apology. Somebody else got up from the table and the guy took a seat near the billionaire tycoon.

Jensen went outside and called Jared.

“Hi,” he said, and added quickly, “It’s about work.”

Two days had passed since he’d left Jared’s apartment. They’d been polite with each other since, Jensen giving Jared space, patiently allowing him to make a decision. Patience wasn’t his strong suit but he knew it was a bad idea to force things. There was nothing else he could say that he hadn’t said that night. Instead, he’d started leaving gifts on Jared’s desk. Things he liked to eat, a book he’d talked about wanting to read, a flowering plant, a pair of tickets to a Knicks game. It was corny as hell, like Jensen was wooing him, but it was the only way he could figure how to let Jared know that he was just there, waiting, wanting him.

Jensen told Jared what Misha needed. He agreed to call Misha as soon as he had the information. Jensen went back into the banqueting hall and watched Misha trying to manage the situation. Their client looked nervous. The other guy clearly had the billionaire tycoon’s attention.

A few minutes later Misha got up from the table, moved away and took a call. Afterwards, he went back and whispered something into the rival guy’s ear. They stepped away from the table and had a conversation. The guy just looked bemused at first, then increasingly angry, gesturing a lot with his hands. Jensen moved closer and stood in Misha’s eyeline in case it got out of hand. Eventually, the guy threw his hands in the air and stalked out of the room.

Jensen raised his eyebrows at Misha, who smiled and nodded, and then went back to the table.

 

***

Jeff’s apartment was an expensive place in downtown Manhattan. The concierge at the front desk spoke to him on the phone and then pointed out the elevator to Misha. “Mr. Morgan is on the fifth floor, Mr. Collins.”

Jeff was waiting for him in the open doorway of his apartment. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, still in his black tuxedo pants, no shoes, black socks.

“Misha,” he said, smiling. There was nobody in the world who could say his name in quite the same way. It was like being physically touched.

“Do you want to come in?”

Misha nodded and Jeff stepped out of his way. It was a beautiful apartment. Double height ceilings, hardwood floors, enormous picture windows framing the cityscape view, and a terrace outside.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“I’ll have what you’re having,” Misha answered, glancing at the glass of bourbon on the coffee table in front of the fireplace.

Jeff poured him a drink and they sat down on the couch. Jeff raised his glass. “Well played tonight, Misha. That was quick work saving your deal like that. I can see why you have such an impeccable reputation.”

Misha took a swallow of the bourbon, felt the fierce, smooth burn in his throat. He leaned forward and placed the glass on the table, faced Jeff. “I’m not here because you almost outmaneuvered me tonight. Playing games with me is not going to get my attention. I'm not falling back into that again.”

Jeff grinned. “But you’re so good at playing games. Watching you the other night with those brothers was an exquisite thing. You’re so strong and beautiful, Misha. You never break. I’ve longed for you every night since then. Why haven’t you been taking my calls?”

Misha leaned forward and picked up the glass of bourbon, swirled it, watching the reflection of light in the glass. “That was a mistake. I’m sorry. It’s not going to happen again. I’m not here to have sex with you because I won the game tonight. I’m just really tired, Jeff.”

Jeff stroked his back soothingly, clasped his neck and massaged the tense muscle. “Let me take care of you, Misha.” His voice was a gentle, baritone purr that curled tendrils of heat throughout Misha’s body. It was so tempting to just let go, to let himself fall into Jeff’s heat and strength.

He gritted his teeth and steeled himself, shrugged Jeff’s hand off him and moved further away on the couch. “It’s over, Jeff. This is a conversation we should’ve had ten years ago. We didn’t. Which is why we’re falling back into it again. It ended the night you broke my arm. What we do to each other is dangerous for both of us.”

Jeff’s face contorted into an expression of anger and hurt. “You’re right we should’ve had a conversation. You left me like that, Misha. I didn’t know where you were for over a month. I knew you’d been to the hospital, that your arm was broken, but you just disappeared, leaving me with all that guilt. I’m sorry I did that to you. I was out of control back then, drunk or high all the time, so fucking angry at everything. I’m not the same man anymore.”

“We’ve both changed.”

“I still want you, Misha. I’ve never met anybody who makes me feel the way you do. I’m not letting you go.”   

Misha sighed. “Do you remember what is was like at the start? Before we got into the mind games and the sex games and the violence. We loved each other, or we tried to. If that meant anything to you, then you’ll let me go. You make me unhappy. You bring things out in me that I hate about myself. I’m not going back to that. I’m asking you, Jeff, to stay away from me.”

Jeff got up, went and stood at the window, looking out at the view. His body language was tense and conflicted. Misha watched him.

Eventually, he turned and looked at Misha. “I’m sorry for all of it.” His voice and expression reminded Misha so intensely of the person he’d first met so many years ago, not the hardened, cynical person he’d become.

Misha got up and went over to him. “So am I.”

Jeff looked at him intently, raised his hand and stroked Misha’s face, then dropped it and put his hands in his pockets. “That loyal dog of yours is trying to blackmail me. Will you make it go away?”

Misha sighed. “I didn’t know that, but I’m not surprised. That’s typical of Jensen. Yes, I’ll make it go away.”

“He also threatened to kill me, but I suppose that was after I made the same threat.” Jeff laughed. “You always did inspire that kind of fierce loyalty in people. He won’t make you happy, Misha.”

“I don’t expect him to. We’re not together. He’s my friend, or I suppose the brother I never had. I’m not saying no to you so I can be with him. I’m just saying no.”     

Jeff suddenly pulled him into hard kiss. Misha didn’t respond, didn’t try and pull away, simply expressed the finality of his decision by remaining wooden and unresponsive.

Jeff pulled away and gave him a sad smile. “Goodbye, Misha.”

“Goodbye, Jeff.”

Misha left the apartment feeling a sense of intense liberation and terrible sadness in equal measure.

 

***

Jared was sitting on the hood of his car outside Jensen’s apartment building when he got back from the golf club.

“How did it go?”

“Misha saved the deal.”

“Good.”

Jensen shifted from one leg to the other, waiting, watching Jared.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

Jensen cleared his throat. “Yeah, of course.”

Jared got up, locked his car and followed him into the building.

In the elevator, he looked Jensen over, his expression unreadable. Jensen licked his lips uncertainly and glanced away, unsure what was going on. When he looked back at Jared, he was smiling.

“What?”

Jared’s grin widened. “You look so hot in a tuxedo.” He stepped forward and crowded Jensen against the wall of the elevator, lowered his head and whispered against his lips. “It makes me want to rip it off you, because as good as you look in it, you still look better naked.”

Jensen breathed out a deep sigh. Gratitude, relief and arousal in the sound. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Jared’s. Cradling his head, Jared deepened the kiss, slipped his tongue inside his mouth, sucked his bottom lip. Jensen moaned and pulled Jared’s hips closer.

Parting Jensen’s legs with one knee, Jared cupped his ass and lifted him up against the elevator wall, bracing him against it by pressing the hard length of his body against Jensen’s.

“Fuck,” Jensen groaned, wrapping his legs around Jared’s hips, throwing back his head and letting him kiss and suck his neck.

They were barely conscious of the ding of the elevator doors opening, until a woman’s voice exclaimed, “Oh my goodness. Uh, I’ll just wait for the next one.”

The doors closed again. Jared lowered Jensen and they pulled apart, laughing. “That’ll get your neighbors talking.”

Jensen grinned. “Yeah, I guess we should wait until we get inside my apartment.” He glanced at the elevator control panel. “What floor are we even on?” He pressed the button for his floor again.

Once they got inside the apartment, Jared pushed him up against the door, kissing him hard, grabbing at his clothes like he couldn’t keep his hands off him. Jensen understood his desperation. It felt like they hadn’t touched each other in months. Some of the buttons on Jensen’s shirt tore free and scattered on the floor.

Jared laughed. “Sorry.”

“This is a really expensive shirt. I’m going to expect you to sew those back on.” Jensen unbuckled Jared’s belt, pulled it free of the loops, dropped it to the floor, unzipped his jeans, shoved his underwear down and got his hand on his dick, squeezed hard. Jared groaned.  

“God, you feel good. I’ve missed you. I can hardly believe you’re really here.”

Jared rutted into his hand. “Have you been jerking off thinking about me?”

“No, I’ve been too sad to jerk off.”

Jared stopped moving his hips and laughed. “Seriously? You’ve been _too sad_ to jerk off?”

Jensen gave him a pained look. “Are you laughing at me, Jared?”

Jared carried on laughing. “I really am, Jensen.”

“You’re going to pay for that.” Jensen dropped to his knees and took Jared’s dick in his mouth in one smooth movement, sucking him down to the base. Jared’s laughter turned into a long, breathy moan. Jensen held Jared's hips, pulled back, lips tight, then forward, sucking hard, using his tongue against the underside.

He pulled off when he could feel that Jared was close to coming, tongued the slit, gently squeezed his balls.

Reaching down and stroking Jensen’s face, Jared said, “Do you want to take this into your bedroom?”

Jared’s face and chest were flushed, his nipples hard. Jensen reached up and pinched one. Jared arched his back and took a deep shuddering breath.

“Yeah, I do,” Jensen answered.

When he stood up, Jared kissed him, then whispered hoarsely, “I want to know what it feels like to be inside you.”

Jensen hesitated for just a micro-second. “Yeah, okay.”

Jared looked at him closely. “Are you sure? If you’re not into it, it doesn’t matter. I love the feeling of you inside me.”

Jensen shook his head. “No, I want it.”

They went into the bedroom and pulled off the rest of their clothes, didn’t turn on the bedroom light, the light from the hallway just enough. Jensen took out a bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer and put it on the bed, then lay on his front. Jared stroked a hand down his back and over his ass. He leaned forward and kissed his way down Jensen’s spine.  

Jensen spread his legs, allowing Jared to fit between them. He heard the cap of the bottle of lube snap open and shut, felt the cool trickle of it on his hole.

“When was the last time you did this?”

Jensen turned his head and rested it on his forearms. “It’s been a while.”

Gently pushing a finger into his body, Jared asked, “Does that feel okay?”

Remembering what to do, Jensen relaxed and let him in, spread his legs wider. “Yeah, it feels good.”

Jared stroked Jensen’s lower back with one hand, moving the finger of his other hand deeper inside him. “Let me know if it doesn’t, okay.”

Jensen nodded. He groaned when Jared bent his finger and rubbed his prostate.

“Good?”

Breathlessly, he replied, “Yeah, really good.”

Jared pressed in another finger and widened them, pulled them out and covered them with more lube, then pushed in with three fingers.

“Fuck,” Jensen groaned. He could feel how he was sweating,

“Too much?”

“No, but you need to stop or I’m going to come.”

Jared pulled out his fingers. “Get up on your knees.”

Jensen got up, threw the pillows on the floor, placed his hands on the headboard and bent his body forward. Jared lined up behind him, held his hips and pushed steadily in. Jensen gripped the headboard hard. He’d forgotten how insanely intense this could feel. Jared wrapped an arm around his chest and pulled him up straight, holding him tightly against his body, reached around and started stroking him, kissing his neck, nudging his hips forward in small, gentle movements. Jensen lasted less than a minute, came all over Jared’s fist, loud sounds of aching pleasure escaping from his mouth. Jared held him up, his arm like a band of steel around Jensen’s chest, thrusting into him a couple of times before coming, biting Jensen’s shoulder as he did.

He pulled out and they collapsed on the bed, both breathing hard.

Once he’d managed to catch his breath, Jensen turned on his side and looked at Jared’s profile in the half-light, the firm line of his jaw and the shape of his nose. He put his hand on his chest and felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Thanks for not giving up on me,” he said softly.

Jared opened his eyes and turned his head, met his gaze. “I love you, Jensen.”

Jensen smiled. “Yeah, I love you too.”

Jared leaned forward and kissed him on the nose. “Everybody makes mistakes and everybody deserves a second chance.”

Jensen heard the implied meaning that there was only one second chance. He kissed Jared’s nipple. “You can trust me.” Turning over, he tucked himself into the curve of Jared’s body and pulled his arm around him.

It took just five minutes before they were both soundly asleep.

 


	11. Epilogue

Jared and Jensen were on the couch in Jared’s apartment about to watch a pre-season football game, drinking beer and arguing over the plays when there was a knock at the door.

Jared raised his eyebrows. “He actually came?”

Jensen grinned. “I guess so.” He got up and opened the door.

“I brought cheap beer and fried chicken, as instructed. I also brought some good wine and excellent Korean takeout.”

Jensen laughed. “Come in, Misha.”

Misha dumped the bags on the counter. Jared came into the kitchen. “Thank you for inviting me over, Jared.” Misha glanced around. “Nice apartment.”

“Thanks. I’m trying not to let Jensen turn it into a bombsite.”

Misha snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“Hey!” Jensen complained.

Misha and Jared smiled at each other.  

Jared got out some plates and poured Misha a glass of wine. They served themselves and went into the living room. Misha looked at the couch dubiously. Jared and Jensen sat down first, leaving room for him to sit on the end. “This is cozy,” he said, balancing his plate on his lap.

Jared unmuted the TV.

“So whose side am I supposed to be on?” Misha asked, looking at the screen.

“The Giants. They’re in white and blue,” Jensen mumbled, his mouth full of chicken.

They watched the game as they ate, Jensen occasionally shouting at the TV. At half-time, Jared cleared up, brought out more beer and refilled Misha’s glass.

“I’ve never understood the appeal of watching men run after each other from one side of a field to another,” Misha said dryly.

Jensen raised his eyebrows. “I swear to god, Misha. Sometimes I can’t even believe you were born in this country, or on this planet. It’s so much more complicated than that. Did you see the yardage markings on the pitch? The offence needs to move the ball forward in chunks of at least 10 yards. If they don’t do that, within four downs, possession of the ball—”

Jared laughed when Misha yawned in an exaggerated way.

“Christ, never mind. Just think of them as gladiators in an arena. Does that appeal more to the romantic part of your imagination?”

“Mmm, maybe, although they’d look better oiled-up and half-naked, just wearing loincloths. And there should be more lions and tigers.”

Jared laughed. “He’s not wrong. About the loincloths, I mean.”

Jensen made a noise of disgust. “How you even made it through high school I don’t know, Misha.”

Jared said, “What’s the bet that Misha ran the schoolyard like his own private fiefdom.”

Misha smiled. “I was known as the boy who could get certain things done. You, of course, Jensen, would be the boy at the center of every schoolyard fistfight.”

Jensen nodded. “Probably. And Jared would be in the library with all the other nerdy misfits.” He raised his glass. “To the skills each of us brings to the table. We make a good team.”

Jared and Misha smiled and they clinked glasses.

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for accompanying me on this ride. I might come back to this verse at some point, but right now, they're where I want them to be. On a couch together, teasing each other :)  
> Also, I've been writing this thing pretty obsessively for the past five weeks and I need a break from constantly hearing their voices in my head!


End file.
